He Sleeps Under the Hill
by Bob G. Leeman
Summary: Interlogue: At the Black College. A brief interval in the story, set during the early years of the Breaking of the World.
1. 0: prologue

_**it is not always easy to walk in the Light, if surrounded by others who do not, but when a great Creative Writer gives you clear, human, often amusing and always sincere examples of the pleasures of doing so (as well as the necessary examples of the pain caused to oneself and others in **_**not**_** doing so) then it certainly helps. I wish to dedicate this fan-fiction story HSUtH to the memory & legacy of Mr Rigney Jnr. May the Hand shelter you, sir.**_

_**Gleeman Bob writes:** a big thank-you to everyone who has read HSUtH so far, especially those thoughtful Reviewsounders who have provided considered feedback - some of which sage advice the foolish Gleeman has even heeded - all further Chapters to be divided into three parts from now on, this sensible practice extended to all previous Chapters as soon as I can find the time to do some revising. Please click on my foolishly Punic name for my Profile and details of upcoming Chapters. _

_Next up; Chapter 6: Through the Paerish Swar in which Shrina + matching Warders embark on their hopeless Horn-Hunt. _

_Please bear in mind that the existing text has only been fully edited once when it could have done with at least three passes of the editing comb! I can either write more or polish what I have already written - but the tired Gleeman cannot do both!_

_For **New Readers**, if you find the extent of the narrative daunting may I suggest that you glance through 0:prologue below and then move straight on to Chapter 5: At World's End where I have written a "the story so far..." This is the Chapter where the story finally gets going! Finally! _

_If you like it (& I hope you do) & wish to know more then feel free to go back to Chapter 1: Within the Stedding, where the Crystal is found, or try the mercifully short [flashback] Chapter 2: Beneath the Collam Doon, that introduces Father, or the inventively-titled 'going back to Tar Valon' Chapter 3: Back to Tar Valon and perhaps should avoid altogether the horribly long Trolloc Wars [flashback] Chapter 4: Before the Stedding. Phew! Does anyone want to be my Editsounder? I can afford to feed you peanuts and pay you absolutely nothing whatsoever! _

_oh, & I am sorry about the shocklance - they are not ter'angreals... hmm. I know! One Age of Legends ba'zoo'ka coming-up! Writing stuff is neat & fun!_

* * *

_**HE SLEEPS UNDER THE HILL * Book I**_

_**prologue**_

'As you summoned me, Father, so I am come.'

'It is good to see you, my Son. Good to look on you once more, even if for the last time. When you left, I did not think that we would ever meet again. I am… regretful, for that which I said. I was angry. I used harsh words, in haste.'

'I am sorry also. I would not have disobeyed you, but I was needed.'

'It is well that Latra can finally dispense with your services.'

'Yes. There has been much work to do, along the Border. The Dark One left many of his minions to trouble the World. But Latra Sedai no longer has requirement of me. When your messenger arrived, I set out for the Black College immediately.'

'I sent several messengers.'

'It seems, then, that only one survived to deliver the message. Yet his journey to find me was not an easy one. He died of his wounds soon after reaching the camp.'

'Could he not have been Healed?'

'Not from the bite of a Darkhound. I doubt even I could survive _that_.'

'I see. Even so, I am surprised that Latra gave you leave to go. After initial reservations, I understand that she came to value your abilities, to rely on you?'

'She did. I was honoured by her trust in me. But I regret to inform you that Latra Posae Decume, Aes Sedai, lives no more. The Cutter of the Shadow fell, in the last fight with the Renegades. I was there, I saw her death. And avenged it. The Renegades are destroyed, their followers scattered and fled back to the Blight. But at very great cost.'

'May the Hand of the Creator shelter her Soul.'

'May the Wheel weave her Thread once more to the Pattern.'

'I see a question in your eyes.'

'I… it is not important, Father.'

'Speak.'

'I saw one of the Doorways, up above. The Aelfinn Doorway, it was.'

'Indeed. Have they finished loading it onto the cart?'

'The… cart?'

'The wheeled platform, fashioned of wood – that which the horses may pull behind them.'

'Ah, so _that_ is what it is. Yes, the Doorway has indeed been loaded onto this… cart. I helped – it is extremely heavy. The Da'shain say that you used it?'

'I did. A _most_ unpleasant experience.'

'It has been said that the Snakes will answer questions?'

'_Three_ questions. Three answers. That has ever been the Agreement.'

'The Agreement, yes. Did they give good advice, Father?'

'They never advise, and little comes from their Realm, _or_ their mouths, that could be termed "good." But they _do_ give true answers, provided the correct questions are asked.'

'These answers… they are why you summoned me?'

'They most certainly are. But time is short. Haindar will be here soon. He is destroying everything that he can find. Yesterday, it is reported that the Earth opened like a vast mouth and swallowed Paaren Disen whole. The Hall of the Servants is gone, as though it had never been. Who knows what will happen today?'

'Then it is true, what they are saying? The Aes Sedai are all insane?'

'Not all. Just the men.'

'Are _you_ insane, Father?'

'Not yet, my Son. But I expect that I will be, soon enough. This is, of course, another reason that time is short.'

'Yes. It was very difficult to reach the College, much has changed and there are many dangers. A time ago, I saw a… _volcano_, vast beyond imagining, beside a broken river. I do not understand why, but it is _there_. They are calling it the Dragon Mountain.'

'I would expect that they are.'

'They say that the Earth and Sea are changing places beneath a Sky gone mad, that the dead outnumber the living, who will come to envy them. They are even saying that the War is finally over, as once they did after the Strike on Shayol Ghul.'

'They say a lot of things. Never mind _they_. What say _you_, my Son?'

'I say that our victory over the Shadow has become as alike to defeat as to make little difference. The fruits of our labours taste of the Dark One's taint, the bitter ashes of failure. Even so, the Bore _was_ sealed, Father, I am convinced of it – Shai'tan imprisoned as of before, and the Forsaken with him… all but one. Ishamael. I still sense him, much reduced, but a dormant presence, slowly awakening...'

'I wish I knew how you and your Brothers did that. This _sensing_ of those the Great Lord has touched, it was never part of my Design for you – and yet, I have seen you do it too often and too well to doubt.'

'Father? The Dark One – you called him...'

'Ah. Yes. Thank-you for correcting me, my Son. I recall that even when you were but a child, I could always rely on you to do that. The Dark One, then. Some habits are harder to break than others. We look to the Future with hope, even in these evil days… yet the Past is always there, waiting to tap us on the shoulder.'

'It is not right, the things that are said of you. If it was only known, what you had done in service to the Light, the sacrifices you had made… you should have been rewarded, not punished!'

'I require no reward other than the pride I feel when I look on you. That is enough. And who knows? Perhaps generations yet unborn will view me in a kindlier light than my contemporaries. Do you understand what I wish you to do?'

'Having seen this place and what you have prepared, I do. But is there not another way? My place is at your side, now. I could… kill Haindar, when he comes. It would be far from easy, getting close enough to attack, but I believe that it could be accomplished.'

'And what of the other Companions who yet survive? And the thousand madmen who stand behind them? No, you would eventually fall. This "Breaking" is something that cannot be averted. It must be left to run its course, and may the Creator have mercy on us all. I would not see you destroyed to no good end. Not when…'

'Father?'

'When you may still have a part to play. When this, the Third Age, is all but done. When the Dragon – curse his name! – has been Reborn.'

'This is something the Aelfinn told you.'

'Yes. You always were the most insightful of my Children. Regrettably.'

'I do not trust the Snakes. But I _do_ trust my Father. Should we say our farewells, then?'

'I suppose we should, at that. Goodbye, my Son. May the Creator's radiance illuminate your path through the deepest shadows, Last Lightborn.'

'Father, you _know_ that I see in the dark as well as a cat!'

'It is merely a figure of speech, my Son. _Do_ try to take things less literally.'

'I will try. Goodbye, Father. Honour to Obey, Chaime Sedai. Chaime Kufer _Mors_, Aes Sedai.'

'Ah, now you _know _that you should not use my third name…'

'The Hall took it from you, true. But now, there _is_ no Hall. So I give it back!'

'Somewhat arrogant, perhaps – but not unappreciated, even so.'

'What will become of you, Father?'

'That is of no concern. My life ended many years ago, long before you were born. The night the Myrddraal came. The night Ishar Morrad Chuain sent for me. I have been living on borrowed time ever since. The last Age is dead and dust while the birthing-pains of this new Age are terrible indeed. But if there is one remnant of my life's work that I can preserve and entrust to the future – then that will be _you_, my Son.'

'It will be me.'

'Come, there is a place prepared. It is time to go to sleep.'

'If it is, then it is. Will I dream?'

'No. Be glad, for nowhere is safe anymore, not even dreams. If they ever were. A timeless interval only, while the Wheel turns outside, and then you will live again.'

'I will live again. When, Father?'

'When you are _needed_. Always remember, my Son – the War never ends. Not really.'


	2. 1: Within the Stedding

_I see a Hill above the Waves -__ the Gambler sounds the Horn_

_I see the Ravens put to flight - The Dragon is Reborn!_

**The M****iereallen Prophecy, surviving fragment **

**original text attributed to Guaire Amalasan [****circa**** FY 942]**

**(vulgar translation ****set to music by Roth Blucha, Gleeman)**

* * *

_**C**__**hapter **__**1 * Within the Stedding**_

A cold wind blew south through the abandoned Ogier _stedding_, carrying on it the sickly taint of the Blight. Ellythia Desiama, Aes Sedai of the Blue Ajah, shivered slightly, pulling her damp woollen cloak closer about her, less concerned by the chill than the stench of decay and corruption. The Blight-border was close, here, and getting closer. One day soon, this nameless _stedding_ would be swallowed entire.

Ellythia's pale complexion seemed more suited to a cloistered life than exposed to the wilderness, inviting the ravages of wind and sun. Somehow, days away from the nearest inn, weeks away from an even half-decent hair-dresser, the chestnut hair curling down to her high collar in ringlets seemed as lush and well-tended as though she still resided in her father's manor-house, with well-trained maidservants to care for it. She frowned, feathery brows drawing down over large, liquid eyes, dark and perceptive. She was a slight, slender woman, pretty in an intense way – yet despite her seeming delicacy, those who had cause to stand in her way had often found her a surprisingly formidable opponent.

The wind gusted again, carrying less of the taint, but more than a hint of ice. Ellythia did her best to ignore it. The mental technique of blotting-out heat or cold had come easily to her, learnt while she was still an Accepted of the Tower, which strictly speaking she should not have till she was raised to full Sisterhood. Even so, as a native of Amadicia, a great deal further south than Arafel, she had never cared for the cold.

Suddenly, Ellythia became aware of… _something_. The same itching sensation she had first experienced as a novice, scurrying about the White Tower on some errand for a Sister, whenever she found herself near certain locked and warded strong-rooms, or down in the lowest levels where Testing for the Ring and Shawl took place. As swiftly as it had arisen, the sensation was gone. Ellythia turned, to say something to her companion. Her companion pre-empted her. She usually managed to.

"Watcher's Oath, it's cold enough to freeze the teats off a Shipmistress!"

Shrinalla Tolamani of the Green Ajah crouched at her side, similarly bundled in her cloak, nose looking distinctly red. The colour didn't suit her. Ellythia sighed.

"Shrina! _Must_ you use such vulgarity? You sound like a low stable-sweeper!"

"Well, my dear Ellyth, at least I do not resemble a shivering beggar-woman!"

When their Warders were present the two maintained a certain amount of Aes Sedai formality, but alone together, they often slipped easily into the bantering, taunting tones they had adopted as novices. Their choice of insults had diminished somewhat after swearing on the Oath Rod, but this could always be circumvented.

Although just an implication, Ellyth opened her mouth to object to this rough characterisation… then closed it abruptly. There it was _again_ – that itching feeling in her mind. She glanced from side to side, scanning the sere landscape around, gorse bushes and stands of low, twisted trees. It looked little different from the wilderness through which they had been pursued for the last two days – and yet, the feeling of loss as they had passed over some invisible boundary, the disconcerting sensation of being cut-off from the Source, had told them immediately that they were in one of the fabled holdings of the Ogier. Luckily for them.

Shrina scowled, shading her eyes and peering through a bush. She was tall and graceful, almost as dark as one of the Sea Folk, with unruly locks of russet hair snaking past her shoulders, offset by bright green eyes. Her features had not yet assumed the ageless look of the Aes Sedai any more than Ellyth's had, and she was attractive enough that most men spared her a second or even third glance, before they noticed the Great Serpent ring on her finger. Or the two scowling Warders touching their sword hilts. There had been a few over the years who had not let even this deter them, however. Shrina had a fondness for dancing and her melodious laughter held an infectious quality, so that even someone as serious-natured as Ellyth could not help but smile in response to it. She was not laughing at the moment, however.

"Where are the Gaidin?" Shrina muttered. "I can just about sense my lads out there, but it's faint… I _told_ them not to go beyond the edge of the _stedding_… Mother's Milk, I _wish_ I could touch the Source, or even sense it… if it wasn't for the fact that I didn't want to explore the inside of a Trolloc's cook-pot, I would never have let you talk me into entering one of these Light-cursed places!"

A week out from Shol Arbela, during a heavy rain-storm, their small party had the misfortune to run straight into a large raiding force of Shadowspawn, on its way back to the Blight. Ellyth and Shrina had linked long enough to fry one of the Myrddraal with lightning bolts and Ellyth's Warder had got in close enough to behead another Fade, though apparently it had continued to give chase for some time, before eventually realising that it was dead. Unfortunately, the small horde of Trollocs had not been linked to either, and whipped-on by the remaining Myrddraal, had been pursuing them with a vengeance ever since.

A Myrddraal and a couple of hundred Trollocs were too much for a pair of Aes Sedai and their three Warders to stand and fight. If only they had been permitted to bring an _angreal_ with them! Despite the inevitable arguments over who would get to hold it, this might have tipped the balance. The chase had lasted well into a second day before, horses close to foundering, they had the good fortune to happen upon a long-abandoned _stedding_ in which to take refuge.

The Shadowspawn were still out there, waiting, reluctant to follow them inside. The Warders were somewhere out there too, keeping a careful watch in case the Myrddraal forced them to overcome this reluctance. This left two young Aes Sedai shivering in a low dell, out of sight and out of mind. Once their mounts were tended to, there was plenty of time left over for bickering and recrimination.

"I did not talk you into anything!" Ellyth protested.

"You were too busy shouting orders at _my_ Warders to do much talking!"

"I apologised for that – but _someone_ had to take charge!"

Shrina sniffed. She could be very possessive about her boys.

"Besides, it is hardly fair to describe a _stedding_ as Light-cursed, yes?" Ellyth murmured, distractedly. "Quite the opposite, I should say…"

"All respect to the Ogier – but _they_ didn't choose to stick around, by the looks of things. Blight-cursed, then, since we're right on top of it… _why_ did we let the bloody Shadowspawn chase us so far north?"

"Because every time we tried to slip around them, the bloody Draghkar gave the bloody game away – _that _i_s_ why!"

A reinforced Fist of Trollocs led by three Myrddraal instead of the usual one, with a Draghkar scout in attendance, instead of operating alone or amongst a group of its own kind, as they normally did… This was a worrying new development, and one that Shrina fully intended to report to her Captain-General, when they returned to the White Tower. _If_ they did.

They had taken care of the Draghkar problem, at least. Ellyth smiled grimly in recollection. The filthy, bat-winged creature had mostly had the sense to fly far above them, but when they had stopped to rest-up that morning, hidden in a small copse, curiosity had got the better of it. She recalled waiting patiently as it circled steadily lower in a series of swooping spirals, scanning the ground for them until it was directly overhead. She and Shrina had linked again – and this time, it was _her_ turn to cast the weaves. They always alternated control when they linked, turn and turn about. Shrina was particularly strong with Water and weather, she had a marked preference for lightning, as the first Myrddraal had discovered to its cost. Ellyth's strength was Fire.

The Draghkar did not even have time to scream. A bright ball of flame snapped into momentary existence, like a second sun. A greasy, charred corpse spinning to the ground, and their pursuers no longer had the benefit of an aerial scout. But they were so close behind by that point, it had made little difference. The Warders used every ounce of woodcraft they possessed to obscure their tracks, but some of the Trollocs could hunt by scent. The trick of sending a false trail in a different direction had already been foiled by the Draghkar twice - now, they were both too drained to attempt it again. Ellyth supposed that she had not needed to make the fireball _quite_ so large or hot, but there it was.

Thank the Creator that they had found this _stedding!_ A _stedding_, no less, that seemed to be concealing a secret – something which should not be here, and yet was. Ellyth closed her eyes firmly, turning in a slow circle.

Meanwhile, Shrina mused aloud, one of her less appealing traits. "If only we could kill the last Myrddraal… it's probably not linked to the Trollocs any more than the others were, but I expect they would lose interest and go back to the Blight without it around to spur them on…" Shrina sighed gustily, slipping a slender, wicked dagger from the hidden sheath strapped to her forearm and twirling it in her fingers, a nervous habit of hers. "We can't stay here much longer, _that's_ for sure – this close to the border, they could send runners to summon reinforcements, if they haven't already… they could even drive something particularly nasty out of the Blight, something that isn't scared of trespassing into _steddings_! A Worm, perhaps… I've never seen a Worm, but Aebel and Blaek know Borderland Gaidin who _have_, apparently they're extremely large and vicious… purple in hue… bloody burning ashes, _why_ did I let you talk me into…" Shrina trailed-off, scowling suspiciously at Ellyth, who, eyes closed, did not notice. "What are you _doing_, Whitecloak?"

"I am trying to _concentrate_, Hunter, so a little less chicken-clucking on your part would be _much_ appreciated… and how dare you persist with the implication that _I_ talked _you_ into…" It was Ellyth's turn to let her words die away – after a moment, her eyes snapped open. "I… I can sense… there is _definitely_ something here!"

"By 'something,' I assume you mean a _ter'angreal_?"

Ellyth nodded mutely, her eyes slightly crossed as she attempted to let some other sense take over… the itching in the back of her mind had become an almost burning sensation, and with it came a hint of… direction. Location. She raised a finger, pointing back toward a small rise in the centre of the _stedding_, an overgrown mound of piled boulders surrounded by the crumbling, blackened stumps of what must have once been vast trees – two thousand years dead, felled by an army of Darkfriends and used to fire the cauldrons of an army of Trollocs.

"It is… over there," she whispered, "by those rocks."

Shrina frowned. "But how can you sense anything? We're in a _stedding_!"

"I _know_ that! But Anaiya always says that Talents, while often associated with the Power, do not necessarily rely on its presence to work…"

"Anaiya always says _this_ and Anaiya always says _that_..."

"Shrina? That silly face you pull when you pretend to be me, sucking in your cheeks and raising your eyebrows?"

"Ye-es?"

"It is not remotely humorous. I think that you are simply jealous because _you_ do not have a Talent, yes?"

Anaiya Sedai's investigation of Ellyth's Talent had been exhaustive, not to mention exhausting. The young Amadici Accepted had spent the better part of two weeks crawling through the under-basements of the Tower, often blindfolded, sometimes shielded, locating various small _ter'angreal_ that Anaiya had inventively hidden – beneath piles of rotting tapestries, at the bottom of old chests cluttered with junk, she had even levered up a few floorboards! When Ellyth consistently found every one of the _ter'angreal_ each time they were hidden, the Blue Sister happily confirmed that she had manifested a minor Lost Talent. Even if few other Aes Sedai were prepared to acknowledge that the 'Whitecloak Wilder' had anything remotely useful to offer the Tower.

It was only after a further week of scrambling through the same basements, singularly failing to find any of the _angreal_ or even the one rare _sa'angreal_ that had likewise been hidden there, that Anaiya reluctantly concluded Ellyth's Talent only worked with _ter'angreal_. Locating the rarer objects that magnified the One Power would have been far more useful than being able to sense the presence of unknown and possibly dangerous artefacts that merely utilised it… but it was something, at least.

Ellyth shook her head angrily. The ability to find lost _ter'angreal_ had often been a source of quiet pride for her, but she wished it came with some sense of what the burning things actually _did!_ Catching her mood, Eradore shifted nervously, pulling a little at the bridle and then nuzzling her shoulder. Ellyth patted the graceful, pale mare's neck soothingly. It would not do to upset the animal, since her continued survival might well depend on its ability to outrun a Trolloc. She had owned several horses since attaining the Shawl, of which 'Blue Dancer' was the latest, and she always called them 'Blue-something' in the Old Tongue. Naming a horse partly after one's Ajah might seem a little obvious, but Ellyth didn't care. Finding apt names for things was not a talent she had. Finding _ter'angreal_ _was_. Not wishing to be left out, A'vron whinnied loudly, nudging against Shrina, who distractedly stroked the grey gelding's nose.

Ellyth had located many lost _ter'angreal_ in the years since she had first left the Tower, often in the most unlikely places – the loom made of some dull, surprisingly light metal, used to prop-up the sagging roof of an old shack in Braem Wood, for example. She had been _certain_ it would make fancloth. The Tower already had one, of course, but it worked erratically at times, so surely another would be useful? But instead of the special cloth for Warder's cloaks, it had sporadically churned out a filmy dress-maker's material that seemed to keep changing colour, as well as going from decently opaque to scandalously transparent at times. Useless! Unless you were a Domani, she supposed...

The trouble was, the Tower was already full of unknown, untested _ter'angreal_ that most Aes Sedai were reluctant to even approach, let alone study. Considering the fate of some of the Sisters who had tested these objects of Power over the years, this was understandable. One in particular… Feeling eyes on her, Ellyth turned from staring at the hill behind them. Emulating her horse's name, Shrina was watching her, expectantly. Ellyth raised an eyebrow.

"Well?" Shrina demanded, "I am as confused as you are about _why_ it's here – but since it _is_ (and you're never wrong about these things after all) hadn't we better go and _find_ it?"

Ellyth smiled, and patted her friend on the arm. Shrina could always be relied upon to see the practical aspects of a situation. "You hobble the horses while I write a note for the Gaidin. It would not do to worry them."

* * *

For reasons that were culturally evident, Aes Sedai from Amadicia were rare. But Ellyth was a special case, even compared with the few other Sisters who hailed from her homeland. Since no girls from a nation where use of the One Power was anathema went to Tar Valon to study as novices of their own volition, the majority were wilders, those with the spark born in them, who had beaten the odds and survived the awakening of their ability, achieving some degree of rough control over it. Of course, any Amadici woman who suspected that she might be able to channel usually had the sense to get as far away from the Children of Light's sphere of influence as possible. Sometimes, their flight from danger took them to the White Tower while still of an age to be entered in the novice book. More often, it did not.

Ellyth still vividly recalled her own initiation of fire, as though it had happened a day ago, instead of a decade. She had been accompanying her younger brother Thaeus for his investiture as a Cadet at the Fortress of Light, an exciting moment for a young noblewoman who had only ever visited Amador twice before. Best of all, the Lord Captain Commander himself was in attendance, to personally swear the new Cadets in when they took their oaths as Children of the Light – a great honour, since he rarely appeared in public. All eyes had been on Pedron Niall as he made his way through the throng, greeting old comrades from the Legions, many of whom had sons and grandsons awaiting him beneath the Dome of Truth, their Cadet tabards emblazoned with the half-Sunflare. All eyes but Ellyth's.

She had been smiling fondly at Thaeus, who looked as though he was about to burst with pride, had glanced away for a moment and become suddenly aware of a drab-coated, pale little man stepping quietly from an alcove, a man she could barely see, as if he was not quite there. The Dome was crowded with Children, soldiers, Amadician Nobles, all armed – but no-one else even seemed to notice him. The ordinary little man had slipped through the crowd, closing on the Lord Commander. He walked right past her, his eyes intent on Pedron Niall or he might have noticed the slim young girl in white silk, her large eyes fixed on him. A dark blade appeared in his hand, held low, angled upwards.

Ellyth had screamed, raising her hands as though she could somehow ward the assassin away. Much to her surprise, as well as that of Pedron Niall and everyone else present, the little man had promptly burst into flames. Her last memory of the incident had been the horrified realisation that, even while being consumed alive by the fierce blaze, the man did not so much as cry out. He made no sound at all. Then she had collapsed, Niall just managing to catch her before her head hit the tiles. Before Ellyth recovered from the dead faint, Thaeus had the sense to spirit her out of the Fortress, where already awkward questions were being asked.

Ellyth had fallen dangerously ill, lay close to death in her father's town-house for several days, before making a sudden recovery that had the hedge-doctors summoned to her bedside baffled. By that time, all but the most fanatical amongst the Questioners had ceased their demands that she be tried in absentia and hanged as a witch as soon as she was able to leave her bed and walk unaided to the scaffold.

Channelling the One Power was illegal throughout Amadicia, of course, and nowhere more so than in the Fortress of Light itself – but her defenders amongst the Children, led by her father, uncles and older brothers, had argued that she had done so involuntarily and that in so doing, had saved the life of a Child, the Lord Captain Commander no less, from an undoubted Darkfriend assassin (though claims of 'Grey Men' were dismissed as mere tall tales from the Borderlands). Added to which, the case could be made that she was, after all, only fifteen years old.

Naturally, there was more to it than this – had Ellyth been a simple farm girl, the Questioners might still have had their way and she would have danced at the end of a rope before the month was out. But Ellythia Desiama was a daughter of one of Amadicia's oldest Houses, a noble line whose sons had worn the golden sunburst and knots of rank on their white cloaks since the end of the War of a Hundred Years. Why, in the oldest of the frescoes filling the alcoves beneath the Dome of Truth, the work that famously depicted Lothair Mantelar founding the Children of Light and swearing his first disciples in a pledge to fight the Shadow, the third man standing on his left was none other than the scion of their House, General Luco Desiama himself!

Ellyth remembered Lord Guye telling her what had been decided. Grim and implacable, her father had summoned her to his private study and addressed her in much the same way as he would have told one of his Hundredmen where he wanted the horses picketed – but the look in his eyes was strongly affectionate, for the only person since the death of her mother who could summon such warmth in him.

"You will go to the Tower, daughter, and you will let the Witches teach you how to control this cursed thing inside of you, until it is no longer a danger to your life, yes? And then, you will _leave_. Your mother's dowry brought me a small estate in the west of Andor. It is now yours. Go there, since you can never return here."

Ellyth opened her mouth to object – she would rather die than go to Tar Valon! She would hang _herself_ if the craven Questioners were too cowardly to do it! And as for _Western Andor_, which one of her maids had told her was peopled entirely by grimy-faced miners and clod-hopping shepherd boys… Her father's hand cracked loudly down onto the surface of his desk. Ellyth closed her mouth.

"Listen to me _very carefully_, my darling. Your brothers all serve in the Legions and while I sincerely hope that none is ever called to give his life in the service of the Light, I believe that I could stand such a loss. My elder brother fell before I was your age, as well as two of my cousins… we Desiama men may die in droves in the name of duty, but as long as just one of us remains to sire future generations, then the House lives on, yes? We are nothing. The House is everything. So. I have four fine sons… but I have only _one_ daughter. You _will_ go to the White Tower, even if I must drag you there myself! Do you understand?"

Ellyth understood. Execution commuted to banishment, after a two-week carriage ride to Ebou Dar she found herself aboard a Sea-Folk Darter bound for Tear and thence, by way of river-boat up the Erinin, to Tar Valon, City of the Witches. Summarily exiled from home and family, condemned to servitude amongst the hated Aes Sedai, the extreme unliklihood now of ever getting _married_... but it was her first ship-voyage and the Sea of Storms was well named. Extreme melancholy had quickly given way to extremer sea-sickness.

The Darter had come by way of Tanchico and already carried a passenger with the same eventual destination, a tall, wild, red-headed girl from Falme. She had helpfully held a bucket for her new cabin-mate to be sick into, then passed Ellyth a clean handkerchief to wipe her mouth with. The thick candle in the lantern (the Atha'an Miere strongly discouraged naked flames on board) was blown out by a hard gust through the open port-hole, plunging them into darkness as the deck tipped from side to side. Scowling with concentration, the dark-skinned girl had caused the candle-flame to flicker back to life, grinning triumphantly at her success.

"I can only make it work while I'm at sea," she explained, her first words spoken to Ellyth in a strange, melodic accent. "So," the odd girl went on, "I hear you're a Whitecloak Noblewoman bound for Tar Valon, same as me? We Wilders should stick together, they don't much care for us at the Tower. Um… I don't mean to _pry_, but it's a bit of an unusual place for one of _your_ sort to be going, isn't it?"

This was Ellyth's first encounter with the tactful nature of Shrinalla Tolamani.

* * *

"You say it's a _ter'angreal_ and I believe you… but beyond making a fairly useful paperweight, what do you imagine it's _good_ for?"

Ellyth gazed levelly at Shrina, wondering if it was worth responding. Probably not. Her Green Ajah friend did not go out of her way to be abrasive on purpose – it was just something that she did naturally, unconsciously. The same way the scorpion would jab its stinger into the frog that was carrying it across the river, without really considering the consequences of not being able to swim…

Instead of responding – _paperweight indeed!_ – Ellyth returned her attention to the circular chunk of crystal that lay heavy on her palm. There were still a few clumps of dirt clinging to it – she swept them off carefully and they pattered back into the deep hole in the ground at their feet. The object had been wrapped in shreds of ancient velvet that had mostly rotted away. There had also been shards of yellow bone and a human skull down there. She thought it was a man's. Ellyth glanced down at the skull, which Shrina had finally stopped holding, replacing the macabre find carefully where they had found it. The skull appeared to be grinning at her, but then, they always did. Perhaps they should fill in the hole and say a blessing? Ellyth did not like to think that she had disturbed a grave. Not that she was superstitious about ghosts, or anything like that...

There was a fair amount of dirt clinging to her grey silk riding-dress too, not to mention Shrina's green woollen gown with divided skirts. Neither was particularly strong with Earth, but they could have used the One Power to uncover the artefact easily enough – had they been able to even touch the Source. Had they dared to channel in the vicinity of an unknown _ter'angreal_, even if they could. As it was, their manual excavation with the aid of sticks had left them somewhat besmirched. Ellyth did not even want to consider the current state of her fingernails...

The _ter'angreal_ was like a multi-faceted globe of crystal the size of a fist, that had been somehow flattened into a fat, circular disc. There were sixteen triangular facets arranged around its edge on either side. It was heavy and, Ellyth suspected, probably as close to indestructible as anything short of _cuendillar_ could be. She glanced again at the oval rock beneath which it had been buried, smaller than the other boulders yet still heavy enough that the two of them had barely been able to roll it to one side. They could have summoned the Warders to do the lifting and digging for them, of course – Ellyth could sense Atual Gaidin somewhere to the north, not too far away – but they had more important duties, keeping a watch on the Shadowspawn that presumably still surrounded them.

Carved into the rock with the delicate touch that only an Ogier could bring to dead stone, were two designs – a representation of the crystal _ter'angreal_ itself, and strangely, the ancient symbol of the Aes Sedai, a sinuous line through a circle. Clearly, it had been intended as a marker, though whoever had caused it to be buried there had never returned to claim it. This was unusual. Usually, _ter'angreal_ were lost, forgotten about, sequestered with a variety of clutter that no-one had got around to throwing out yet… she had never found one that had been deliberately hidden before. Hidden in a _stedding_, of all places.

Shrina was clearly bored. And disappointed. Ellyth knew exactly _why_, but did not wish to raise _that_ subject. She carefully wrapped the _ter'angreal_ in a silk scarf, tucking it into her belt pouch as they walked back down to the horses. It was getting darker.

"Do you remember when we first met, Shrina?"

"Vaguely. You were a yellowish colour, and very sick. Most unpleasant. I fully recollect the _next_ day though, when you were feeling better, when we went up on deck for some air. And you discovered that out of sight of land, the Atha'an Miere women do a bleeding sight more to shock their passengers than just wearing uncomfortable nose-jewellery!"

"Mmm. One does not tend to see _that_ sort of thing going on in Amadicia."

"_Then_, did you not dare me to take my blouse off too, in front of the Sea Folk men?"

"What? _You_ dared _me_!"

"Oh yes. That's right, I did. I didn't think you'd actually _do it_, though!"

"A dare is a dare. And it seemed the best way to shame you into doing it too."

"I thought so. Admit that you are a sneaking cat, Ellyth."

"I admit nothing of the sort, Shrina."

"Huh. Bloody cold, though, when you're not used to it…"

"Yes. A somewhat liberating feeling, even so. I can vaguely understand why they do it. Besides, I seem to recall that you were so disappointed that the Atha'an Miere men were_ not_ staring, you put your blouse straight back on!"

* * *

Atual Aendwyn narrowed his eyes, like chips of blue-grey flint in a broad, high cheek-boned face, which he usually kept clean-shaven, though their time in the wilderness had left him with a thin patina of greyish stubble. No, not greyish. _Grey_. The word vaguely depressed him. His long hair, held back from his brow with a silver clip and falling down as far as his belt, was as dark as ever. But his beard was starting to betray his age. There was no point dressing it up in fancy words. He was getting old.

It happened, even to Warders – time seemed to stand still for your Aes Sedai, but one morning you might wake feeling too stiff to get out of bed and realise that thirty or forty years had passed in her service, that soon it might be time to go to the practice-yard and spend your final days teaching Younglings not to cut their own heads off. Or failing that, you could always put your sword in a chest under your bed and take up gardening. Atual grimaced. He had a good few years left in him yet. In any case, retirement was for a merchant or a farmer, as was the luxury of a deathbed – Atual was determined to die the way he had lived. Violently.

It was getting darker. He could see like a hawk, but not like a bloody _owl_. There seemed to be some sort of commotion going on amongst the Shadowspawn down there… straining his ears, he could distantly hear harsh cries, perhaps the clashing of steel. The bulk of the Fist had sheltered in a stand of trees that ran along the _stedding's_ edge for a mile, though they certainly had scouts out to cover the rest of the perimeter, in case their prey tried to make a break for it. It was no good – without his spy-glass, he would have to go and take a closer look.

Atual whistled softly and Caba trotted up. The dark, war-trained stallion was called 'Horse' in the Old Tongue – Atual always gave his mounts that simple name. He was aware that he did not have much of an imagination, other Warders had helpfully pointed this out to him on occasion, so in a way, it was a joke against himself. Some gave their warhorses fierce, combative names, like the fabled beasts of legend that had carried Heroes into battle, but this always seemed absurd to him. A horse was a horse. Of course. Atual vaulted into the saddle, patting Caba's neck with one hand, unsheathing his sword with the other. He balanced the ancient, power-wrought blade across his shoulder, the single sharp edge ready to slash downwards at a moment's notice. Which would be all the notice he was given.

"Time to walk through the flames again, Horse," he muttered.

At a gentle pressure from his heels, Caba advanced at a walk. Atual ensured his fancloth cloak was arranged evenly over his shoulders, though the brown coat and dark grey trews he wore tucked into black riding boots blended into the dull landscape almost as well. Atual squinted into the gloom ahead. He _wished_ he still had his best spy-glass, the expensive one from Cairhein, but it was 'foolish to wail over milk spilt from the pail' as his dear mother always used to say. Besides, it had come in handy, if not in the way its maker had intended. He had put himself in harm's way many times before, and not always when he had to, but yesterday had been dangerous, even for him.

_Atual __lay low on Caba's neck as the Trollocs thundered past in hot pursuit of the others, careless and stupid in their eagerness to spill blood or they might have seen the lone rider behind the gorse bushes, colour-shifting cloak or no. Their Myrddraal was riding right in the middle of them – after seeing his Brother fall to Aes Sedai lightnings, he clearly had no desire to lead from the front. Even running hard, the Shadowspawn took a deal of time to pass, Atual counted more than a hundred, and this was just half of them. The rest were off to the east somewhere, led by the other Halfman. They had divided their force to try and encircle their prey. Foolish. It had given him a chance to double-back and get between them. Fortunately the Draghkar hadn't seen him, it was up ahead somewhere, still dogging the rest of his party, an occasional ear-splitting shriek echoing from the darkness above._

_The last Trolloc loped past, a wolfish thing with a massive bow propped over its shoulder. Atual made a note to kill it first of all, he didn't want a spear-sized arrow in his back. __Fortunately the rain was still falling, heavily enough to mask the sound of his approach. He took a deep breath, summoned the Void, and burst from cover. As an impromptu ambush, it worked surprisingly well. The sudden pounding of hooves behind them was the first indication any of the Trollocs he killed had that they were about to die. Atual mowed through the rear of the mob at full gallop, blade dipping and weaving to either side, Trollocs stumbling and dying as he sliced his way in. There, up ahead, the Fade astride its own dark mount…_

_The Myrddraal heard the __alarmed howls of its troops, began to turn – too late. Sheet Lightning was a single-handed, mounted swordform with but one purpose – the decapitation of another rider. Performed properly, it was almost impossible to counter, but most Warders disapproved of it – like Sheathing the Sword, it left you dangerously open. Guiding Caba with his knees, Atual swept his swordarm out to the right and his other arm to the left, for balance. A jarring in his wrist as the power-wrought blade connected with and sheered through a pale neck. The snarling, eyeless head went tumbling beneath the hooves of its mount._

_The Myrddraal's__ low return-stroke came with inhuman speed, too fast to parry. Atual had not expected to survive this encounter, just to give his own life in order to halve the amount of enemies they faced. A fair trade. He felt something crunch against his side, a sharp pain, and then, hooves thundering, Caba was past and away. Retrieving the reins, Atual risked a swift glance over his shoulder._

"_Mother's milk in a bleeding bucket!" he snarled._

_The desperate attempt had been for naught. Apart from those kissed by his blade on the way through, not one of the pursuing Trollocs was down – they had not been linked to the Myrddraal. Atual dug in his heels, the headless Fade following suit, galloping after him even while black blood still spurted from its neck stump. It had not needed eyes to see where it was going and the absence of the entire head did not seem to affect its sense of direction either. Atual could detect his Aes Sedai, not too far ahead, and angled in that direction. He left the Trollocs behind in due course, and some time after that, the headless horseman in his wake toppled from the saddle and lay still. Hard to kill or not, even a Myrddraal had limits. Atual was glad when it finally tumbled to the ground, ending the macabre pursuit. Imagination or no, that sort of thing was definitely the stuff of nightmares, of dark tales told by the fireside! _

_There was a bad pain in his side, but not that ba__d. He had no desire to stop and take a look at it, however. By now, Ellythia Sedai would have sensed that he was wounded. Atual steeled himself. Most of the time, his Aes Sedai was a sensible, precise young woman; her neat, efficient surface concealing a core of steel – the perfect Blue Sister, in other words. It was strange how something as commonplace as a bit of blood leaking from her Warder could transform her into so unlikely a mother-hen!_

_Sure enough, w__hen Atual caught-up to the others, the Mistress had his coat and shirt half-off before he had even managed to dismount. Her lips were compressed with anger (at the Myrddraal rather than him, he assumed) as she carefully pulled the bloody cloth away from the wound in his side. He could feel her concern through the bond – a wound from a Thakan'dar-forged blade could fester and kill in hours. If the taint was in his blood, it might well be too late, even for Healing. Which was odd, because he felt fine._

_Behind them, __Shrina Sedai moved swiftly amongst the horses, running her hands over them, channelling strength back into their tired muscles. Somewhere up in the dark, storm-clouded sky above, the Draghkar screeched again, pinpointing their location for its twisted brethren. Shrina's Warders were unstringing their horse-bows, they had taken a few shots at it but the distance was too great. _

"_You need a Two Rivers longbow for that range," Atual muttered, "and about twenty years worth of practice with the bloody thing!" They blinked at him in unison. __A__tual felt his Aes Sedai's concern ease. He glanced down at her._

"_Just some shallow puncture wounds, Atual Gaidin," she murmured, "you have had worse from a sparring-match, I would expect." Ellyth's tone was as brisk as ever, but she gave his arm a hard squeeze, to indicate how relieved she was. Then, she showed him some scraps of shattered metal and glass, stained with his blood. "Commiserations… I can Heal _you_, but I fear that your fine telescopic looking-glass is past repair." It seemed it had been tucked into its leather case attached to his belt, had taken the blow meant for him. Fortunate... but it had still been his _best_ spy-glass._

Atual felt the weariness of the last few days catch up to him when he crossed the invisible border of the _stedding_. Even Gaidin had their limits, he and Shrina Sedai's Warders had not slept a wink in that time, had ridden almost twice the distance the Sisters had, scouting the path ahead, obscuring the trail behind. When they had ridden into the _stedding_, while the Aes Sedai had bemoaned the loss of the Source, the Gaidin had immediately felt refreshed by the mysterious aura of the Ogier holding – now, that feeling disappeared as abruptly as it had come, and it took an effort for Atual not to slump in his saddle, to yawn extravagantly. _Wake-up you milk-drinking apron-stringer, you can sleep when you're dead!_

Atual didn't fear dying, but he did fear failure. For a Warder, the violent death of his Aes Sedai was about as complete as failure could be for a man. He had already experienced that once, though through no fault of his own. No wonder few survived such an ordeal. Bond be cursed, it was _failure_ that killed.

Atual wondered if Aebel and Blaek had left the _stedding_ to investigate too. They had better not have – amongst Warders, the one with seniority gave the orders when the Aes Sedai were not around, and that was definitely _him_. He had sent them to where the other decent vantage lay, a long, low hill, studded with stones. Then, he had placed himself directly opposite where the Shadowspawn incursion would be most likely to come. If it came. Not that he didn't trust Shrina Sedai's Warders to do as good a job as he when it came to protecting the Sisters, they were capable enough when it came to these matters. But they were young, yet – though excellent Gaidin technically, they lacked experience. They weren't _seasoned_. It was the seasoning that counted, he considered.

Caba snorted softly, smelling blood, though the warhorse was trained to not make any louder sound that might alert an enemy. Atual inhaled, and caught the bitter stench of Trolloc-blood on the Blight-tainted wind. Something had _definitely_ happened, up ahead through the trees... there was nothing for it, he was going to have to go in closer. Wondering if _this_ was the time his curiosity would get him killed, Atual heeled Caba to a trot and raised his blade. Though if his suspicions were confirmed, then perhaps he would not need it.

* * *

"How is the paperweight? An _angreal_ would have come in more handy, but I suppose if the Shadowspawn attack, you could always try _throwing_ it at them! Might bring up a nasty lump on the Myrddraal's head!" Ellyth sighed, tucked the Crystal back into her pouch. She had taken it out again to look at it. She eyed Shrina, shrewdly.

"Shrina, I know _why_ you are being rude about the _ter'angreal_."

"And why would that be, O Fount of Wisdom?"

"Because it did not turn out to be the bloody Horn of Valere, _that _is why!"

Shrina sniffed, not deigning to reply. But the slight flush in her cheeks told Ellyth that she had struck a nerve. The sad fact of the matter was, Shrina had an _obsession_. It was growing up in Falme that was to blame. That, and the legends kept alive by the Do Miere A'vron, the Watchers over the Waves. Shrina's grandfather was a Watcher, had raised her after her parents were lost at sea, and Ellyth supposed that it was _his_ fault also, for substituting dangerous foretelling and prophecy for bedtime stories – he had been well-versed in the former, woefully ignorant of the latter. The young Shrinalla had lapped-up such tales at an impressionable age, but it was the Miereallen Prophecy in particular that had struck her childish imagination.

Of course, the Prophecy was spoken long after the city of Miereallen, 'the Hill above the Waves', had been burned to the ground in the Trolloc Wars, and long before the town of Falme had grown from its ruins. But it was the person said to have spoken these words that gave it credence – the False Dragon, Guaire Amalasan, most infamous son of the then-nation of Darmovan, which encompassed Toman Head a thousand years ago. Guaire was said to have had the Gift of Foretelling, though if any of his other predictions were recorded, they had not survived the rise to prominence of Artur Hawkwing. Neither had he, for that matter. But since Amalasan was inextricably linked to the Legend of the High King, whose return the Do Miere A'vron watched for, they had kept the False Dragon's most famous words of prophecy alive.

There were many different translations from the Old Tongue, but the gist was this – when the Horn of Valere was again sounded, to call the Heroes of Legend from their long sleep, to fight for the Light against the Forces of the Raven (presumably, the Shadow) it would be sounded in Shrina's birthplace. In Falme. Thus had begun her life-long obsession. She was an Aes Sedai of the Green Ajah, first and foremost – yet she also considered herself to be some kind of a Hunter for the Horn! Naturally, Shrina did not see any kind of conflict of interest in this. Her Ajah awaited Tarmon Gai'don, held themselves ready for it – but how could there be a Last Battle _before_ the Horn was found? Her fascination with the Horn had brought her ridicule from other novices and scorn from Aes Sedai, but Shrina didn't care.

The trouble was, the Horn of Valere (if it even existed) was almost certainly, by definition, a _ter'angreal_. Ellyth did not see what else it could be. Apart from the fact that her friend loathed being in the White Tower as much as she, Ellyth often had the feeling that Shrina accompanied her on long journeys to find lost _ter'angreal_ in much the same way a huntsman followed his best tracking hound through the woods, in the hopes of finding the rare game he sought. She had put this to Shrina once, during a heated argument, but the accusation had backfired considerably.

"_A hound?" Shrina responded, sweetly, "why no, dearest Ellythia, I would _never_ call you a hound, that would be far too rude – think of me as a farmer seeking truffles to take to market, and you as my best truffle-finding pig! Sniff out the truffles, piggy! Snuff-snuff!"_

Dogs and pigs aside, Shrina was probably convinced that Ellyth would stumble across the Horn sooner or later, probably in the most unlikely, out-of-the-way place. The abandoned _stedding_ certainly fit the bill – but to Shrina, the circular chunk of crystal must have been, in its lack of any Horn-like attributes, yet another in a long line of disappointments.

Shrina was glaring at her. They knew each other well enough to be able to accurately predict what the other was thinking about.

"Now _look_, I haven't followed you half-way to the Pit of Doom and back, risking Trollocs and Darkfriends and the Light-knows what else, simply to dig up flaming _rocks_, even if they _are_ from the Age of Legends!" Shrina took a deep breath. "_If_, on the other hand, our travels _did_ lead us to clues concerning the location of certain artefacts…"

"A Hunter must follow every trail, after all."

"Burn-me, Ellyth! For the _last _time, I am _not_ a bloody Hunter of the bloody Horn! I would just like to _find it_, that's all!"

Ellyth sighed, considering. She regarded Shrina, who despite having her lower lip stuck out, was looking particularly striking. A good argument always brought out the best in her. Shrina might get on her nerves at times, but it had been good to have her there, these past few years. It was about companionship, having someone to share experiences with, other than the Gaidin. Someone who would understand.

"Yes, I know. I am sorry, Shrina, I should not bait you."

"Well… I certainly bait _you_ enough, so I suppose it is only fair. Anyway, _I _shouldn't doubt your Talent. I am sure the _ter'angreal_ will prove useful."

They embraced. A rare grin bared Ellyth's teeth.

"Besides, you _know_ what they call us, back in the Tower. I would rather be known as 'The Hunter' than 'The Whitecloak,' yes?"

"_Yes!_"

It was characteristic that they had taken the taunting names other novices had given them and adopted them as badges of pride. For two young women from very different backgrounds, they had much in common. It was why they were friends, why their friendship had lasted from before they were even novices. They had tested for the Ring on the same day, been raised to the Shawl within a week of each other, and despite being of different Ajahs, had continued to associate through the years since. It was not the custom to, but they shared a habit of flouting convention.

Abruptly, Shrina raised her head. "Well now. My boys are riding back. Something must have happened." Shrina slipped into her saddle, skilfully bringing A'vron under control when he began to frisk. "Wait here, just in case."

"_I_ am not going anywhere." Ellyth could sense Atual out there also, though he was not approaching. In fact, he seemed to have moved further away. She frowned.

A sheathed cavalry-sword was hung over Shrina's pommel, an odd, curved-forward blade, deliberately sized for a woman. Shrina touched the gold-embossed hilt, then caught Ellyth's disapproving eye.

"_What_? I can't channel in this bloody _stedding_, what do you expect me to do if we're attacked? Scratch the Trollocs with my fingernails?"

"You are not a _Warder_, Shrina…"

"Hah!" Shrina drew the blade, flourished it defiantly, then pounded her heels into A'vron's flanks and galloped away. Ellyth shook her head in despair. An Aes Sedai who carried a _sword_ – Shrina _was_ unusual! Even compared with most Greens… Acting like some bloody-minded Saldaean officer's wife, chasing after her husband into battle – and Shrina wasn't even _from_ Saldaea! Although the sword was.

Ellyth cursed the day her friend had been presented with the blade, a somewhat unusual courting-gift from an extremely short (yet extremely persistent) Saldaean Lord who, regardless of Shrina being Aes Sedai _and_ a head taller than him, had fervently wished to marry her. That was in the early days of their travels together, fortunately _before_ Shrina had bonded her Warders, or there might have been a nasty incident. Although she had refused the ridiculous suit almost from his first entreaties, Ellyth knew that Shrina still had fond recollections of Lord Wakime, her diminutive Saldaean admirer – she would smile secretively every time she read his warm (a little_ too_ warm!) lines of love-poetry which were engraved on the blade.

Ellyth dug the _ter'angreal_ out again. She couldn't stop looking at it, it fascinated her, compelled her. It felt _old_, as though it carried the weight of the Age of Legends within its substance. More than that, there was a feeling of _recognition _with it, as though she had seen it before somewhere, some distant, lost memory, teasing at the back of her mind. Not just seen it – as though she had actually _held_ it. She had never felt anything like this with any of the other _ter'angreal_ she had found. Perhaps it was something to do with being in a _stedding_, but unlike the loom or the other items, this seemed _important_ – she could almost feel the Pattern being weaved around her when she held it. Ellyth was not given to fanciful notions, but she felt that this _ter'angreal_ was in some way strongly associated with her own _destiny_.

Then, abruptly, something seemed to shift in her memory, like remembering a vivid part of some long-forgotten dream – and Ellyth recalled _exactly_ where she had seen the _ter'angreal_ before. From within _another_ _ter'angreal!_ The memories had faded after the Testing, as Anaiya had said they would, but were always there within her, waiting to resurge at the right moment.

"_You are washed clean of false pride. You are washed clean of false ambition. You come to us washed clean, in heart and soul." Ryma Sedai's voice echoed in the ancient domed chamber that lay deep beneath the Tower._

_El__lyth shivered, gasping. She knelt unclothed on the tiled floor, deep below ground. The water from the now-empty chalice held by Ryma was cold on her skin, but she barely felt it. Before her, the triple arches of the Testing ter'angreal glowed with the Power, the space in between filled by flickering, opaque light, three Sisters sitting cross-legged around it, staring fixedly inward as they manipulated complex weaves. She had been through twice already, and very badly wished _not_ to have to do so again. But three times was the Rule._

_Cabriana Sedai helped her to her feet. The pale haired woman was notoriously hard, but fair with it. Ellyth was glad to have the Blue Sister present for her Test. Cabriana Mecandes was one of the few Aes Sedai in the Tower who seemed well-disposed towards her – she, Anaiya, Kairen, a few others, mostly Blues. The rest, Reds in particular, regarded her with suspicion at best, contempt at worst._

"_The Third Time is for what will be," Cabriana pronounced, her clear voice echoing beneath the dome. "The way back will come but once. Be steadfast…"_

_Shivering, Ellyth took a step towards the ter'angreal. Then another. Her feet slowed – a half-step – then halted. She shuddered._

_Cabrian__a saw her hesitation. "Do you refuse?" she asked, levelly._

_Ellyth met __Cabriana's stare, and flinched. Those blue eyes were as piercing and unblinking as ever – the novices whispered that Cabriana was not afraid of anyone, had once even stared-down Elaida! – but Ellyth thought she knew her well enough by now to detect a hint of sympathy in that gaze._

"_You know that you will be put out of the Tower if you do," Cabriana added quietly, in a softer tone._

_Ellyth wondered if that would not be for the best. She had disobeyed her father's wishes by staying even this long among the Tar Valon Witches. Not that, after three years, she really thought of them as 'witches' anymore. Well, not _all_ of them, at least. Ellyth glanced at Ryma Sedai, who had returned the silver chalice to the table by the wall and was waiting patiently, off to one side. She could see the usual antipathy in the Yellow Sister's gaze – there were many in the Tower who still considered her an outsider, who did not think her worthy of the Ring – but perhaps also, a grudging respect that she had come this far. Probably, few had thought she would even dare to enter the ter'angreal, or last this long if she did. Twice she had faced her fears, twice been forced to make a terrible sacrifice in order to continue. _

_The Lord Captain Commander had not been the Darkfriend__'s target, this time. She had let the Grey Men murder her younger brother. She had turned her back on Thaeus as the daggers plunged into him, while he begged her to save him. Resolute, deafening her ears to his screams, she had turned away, stumbled sobbing through the shining arch. That had been the worst._

_T__he Council of the Anointed, presided over by Lord Guye, had judged her guilty of witchcraft. She had been summarily sentenced to death by her own father. The Questioners of the Hand of Light had dragged her to the scaffold, where a noose awaited her neck. A baying mob full of faces she knew from childhood, twisted with hatred, howled for her to die. She refused to – she had channelled to save herself, though this was forbidden. Flames had danced among the Questioners, white cloaks blackening, skin charring. Lightning had struck into the mob, searing and burning flesh. She had fled the cries of pain and terror, fled through the silver archway._

_Now… it would be so easy, to refuse the Test and walk away. She could go to Andor or travel the World, see some of the strange places that Shrina had visited. But whatever else, she knew that she could never go back to Amadicia. For better or worse, the Tower was her home now, perhaps the only home she would have for the rest of her life, and if she attained the Shawl, that might be a long life indeed. But most importantly, she would _not_ give her enemies the satisfaction of seeing her fail. She _would_ be one of them, she was strong enough to pass their cruel Tests! But she did not have to _like_ it._

"No_," Ellyth cried, resuming her steps toward the ter'angreal, though it felt like the hardest thing she had ever done, "I do _not_ refuse!"_

_Cabrian__a nodded, pleased. "Do not channel again," she murmured. "The Blue Ajah has need of strong women. We do not wish to lose you." Ellyth blinked. There had been hints before, as she advanced in her training and asserted her beliefs, but this was the first indication that if she chose Blue, she would not be turned away. It must be true what they said – you did not choose your Ajah. Your Ajah__ chose _you_._

_But first, there were __Tests to be passed. Ordeals to be survived. Setting her shoulders, Ellyth forced herself to walk into the all-encompassing Light._

_It was _cold_. What was she doing here? Above, emblazoned against a grey northern sky, a broken crag loomed over a shattered landscape of low granite peaks. The crag, split by a deep fissure, resembled twin horns rising high into the sky, an alarming and vaguely menacing sight. She seemed to be in a low valley. A hint of salt hung in the air, she could hear the sound of breaking waves in the distance._

_She __was holding something heavy and solid. Ellyth – _yes, that was her name_ – looked down. At the flattened sphere of crystal she held cupped in her hands. A dull crimson light pulsed rapidly in one of its facets. _What was it?_ With a start, she realised that she was naked. _No wonder I am cold…

_H__arsh cries from behind. Turning, Ellyth saw hideous silhouettes breaking the skyline all around, twisted shapes, part-man, part-animal. _Trollocs…they are Trollocs… Shadowspawn_. She had never seen one before, but somehow knew this was what they were. _

Tall tales from the Borderlands_. _

_Ellyth frowned. The words in her head were not hers – where had they come from? _

_The Trollocs __sniffed the air like beasts, then saw her and howled savagely, scrambling down the steep, rocky slopes on all sides, dislodging cascades of rubble beneath their hoofed and clawed feet. _

_Ellyth__ turned, and _ran_. Ahead, the fissure in the crag opened into a shallow chasm, descending into the earth, yet still open to the sky. She scrambled down it, cutting the soles of her feet on sharp scraps of flint, painfully scraping her knees and one of her palms each time she stumbled, the heavy weight of the Crystal still clutched in her other hand._

_Abruptly__, the chasm ended in a rough wall, the broken crag looming on either side. Her way was blocked. She could hear the Trollocs, baying like a hunting pack, close behind. She turned to face them, clutching the Crystal. The Shadowspawn poured down the chasm, leaping over boulders, shoving past each other in their eagerness to kill, brandishing axes and swords. _Fire! She would burn them!_ Ellyth raised her injured hand, began to open herself to the Source. _

You must not channel_. _

_A__gain, a voice in her head, not her own. This was insane – or _she_ was! Was it a dream? It felt dream-like – and yet, it also felt _real_. She lowered her hand. The Trollocs were almost upon her, so close that she could see the bloodshot, human eyes in their twisted, bestial faces. The brief chase was already over. She was going to die. Quickly, if she was lucky._

_The Crystal began to _glow_. Rays of pure, white light stabbed out from it in all directions. And without knowing why or what she was doing, Ellyth raised it above her head in both hands. The light swelled, filling the chasm._

_The Trollocs screamed with __fear and pain, dropping their weapons, covering their eyes, falling to their knees… and they began to _change_. A monster with a crest of stiff feathers and a cruel beak where its mouth should have been fell, its back arching until only head and heels touched the ground, arms thrashing, seeming to shrivel, rough clothing and flesh sloughing away – and a large eagle stood in its place, perched on a rock. The bird-of-prey uttered a loud screech, then leapt into the air, wings beating hard until it was just a speck far above. At the same time, a brutish, curly-horned creature fell to all fours, clawing at the ground with its thick-nailed fingers, shuddering, diminishing – until finally, only a rough-coated mountain-goat was left. It bleated, before scrambling up the side of the chasm, hooves agile and sure on each tiny ledge. _

_The sudden__, shocking transformation took place on all sides, Trollocs writhing on the ground, twisted human characteristics melting away to leave a pure animal essence. Wolves, boars, even a bear – whatever the Trolloc reverted to, each departed in peace until Ellyth was left alone, with just piles of vicious weaponry and filthy clothing to indicate that the Shadowspawn had ever been. The light in the Crystal faded, Ellyth lowered it slowly. She momentarily considered wrapping herself in one of those rough tunics – then discarded the notion. Better no clothes at all, than the flea-ridden garment of a Trolloc… or ex-Trolloc… besides, she thought she was becoming accustomed to the chill air, it didn't seem to bother her as much as it had. She wished she could say the same about the various scrapes on her bare skin, which were stinging viciously. _

The Third Time is for what will be…

_Ellyth blinked. What did _that_ mean? The Crystal flared again, though less brightly than before. There was something... She looked down. The rough granite beneath flickered, then became transparent. A momentary flash of vertigo, as though she were standing on air above a deep pit. But the rock floor beneath her torn feet was as solid as ever, for all that it had become clear as the finest glass. There was a chamber down there, smooth-walled, man-made. Ancient. And there was something in it, something _important_. It shone with the same white light as the Crystal – they were _linked_ somehow, she knew this without knowing _how_ she knew – glowing too brightly to make out more than the barest detail, but it seemed to be a _box_… long and narrow… a _coffin?_ She _had_ to go down there. She had to _see.

The Way back will come but once…

_Unwillingly, shaking her head as though she could dislodge the unwelcome voice i__n her mind, Ellyth turned. A silver arch had appeared in the cliff wall that had barred her escape. For a long moment, she hesitated. The arch shimmered, seeming to fade a little. Screaming with frustration, Ellyth threw herself through the shining silver archway, and–_

"Aes Sedai?"

Ellyth jumped, nearly dropping the crystal _ter'angreal_. Shrina's Warders stood nearby, watching her curiously – unnoticed, they had materialised from the gloom, leading their warhorses slowly forward, colour-shifting cloaks making bits of them seem to disappear, then reappear. In addition, they wore drab green coats and britches, dark boots and belts, designed to blend into the surrounding vegetation. They wore the same clothes. They always did.

Aebel and Blaek. As usual, she had no idea which was which. They were brothers. _Twin_ brothers. It was not just that they looked similar, as most twins did – they looked _exactly_ alike, mirror images of each other. Identical dark eyes beneath long lashes, identical aquiline noses and full-lipped mouths, identical brown locks of hair hanging down to their collars, the smooth, olive skin of Mayeners – my, but they were a handsome pair! Dangerous and formidable too, of course, one didn't become a Warder on good-looks alone. But certainly, easy on the eye. Ellyth might have felt guilty about such aesthetic appreciation, if Shrina hadn't occasionally made comments about Atual's broad shoulders and well-turned calves…

The twin Warders glanced at each other, then fixed their enquiring gazes back on Ellyth, and the Crystal she held. Beyond them, she could see Shrina walking A'vron back and forth, occasionally slashing at a shrub with her blade. The Twins' warhorses, Mosk and Merk, stared over their shoulders with perhaps the same note of query, rangy black stallions with identical white flashes on their long noses.

"Yes, Gaidin?" She was always careful to avoid using their names, as she would invariably address the wrong one by his brother's.

"Excuse-us for troubling you, Ellyth Sedai-"

"-but we saw the Trollocs leaving."

She _wished_ they wouldn't-

"It looks as though they got tired-"

"-of waiting for us to come out."

_Wouldn't_ finish each other's bloody sentences!

"Thank you both, Gaidin." Where in the Pit of Doom had Atual got to? He should have been back by now. She could sense him, still to the north. If he had disobeyed her and left the safety of the _stedding_… Ellyth spared a last glance at the Crystal, before tucking it away. As soon as she could touch the Source again, she intended to find out exactly what it did. Even if it killed her.

* * *

Although it was perfectly clear to him what had taken place, Atual approached cautiously. He'd had a feeling that something like this might happen, especially since the Trollocs were not linked to their Myrddraal. At least, he had _hoped_ it would happen. He had a better idea than most of _why_ Shadowspawn would not enter _stedding_ willingly, because he had received the information straight from the Ogier's mouth, as it were. In hindsight, asking _that_ question of a Builder had been a rather dangerous thing to do, not to mention rude, but he had been young and stupid.

_The Ogier__ frowned at him from the top of the scaffolding, bushy eyebrows drawing down alarmingly over large eyes, then descended slowly. At ground level, the Builder had still loomed over him, of course. Even for an Ogier, he was _huge_._

_"You want to know _what_?" the Ogier rumbled, nostrils flaring in his broad snout. His tufted ears lay flat against his skull, probably not a good sign._

_"I have no wish to offend you, friend-Ogier," Atual had stated carefully, though he had the feeling it was a little too late for that, "I just wanted to know why Shadowspawn fear to enter a stedding?" The group of Ogier stonemasons had arrived the previous week to repair a section of one of the bridges, damaged in the Aiel War. Not damaged _by_ the Aiel, they had not come closer than within distant sight of the shining walls, but by those fleeing them in panic – too many carts full of refugees' possessions squeezed onto the bridge at once had cracked the coping badly in several places. Local artisans could do the work of course, but not nearly as well. Besides, it was good to have the Builders come back from time-to-time, it reminded the citizens of Tar Valon that those responsible for the beauty of their City were not creatures of myth. _

_Atual was young – though in his mid-__twenties, older than most Tower-trained Gaidin were when they first received their cloaks – but he was newly bonded to Milona Sedai of the Yellow Ajah and still proudly wore his fancloth everywhere, to the amusement of older Warders who had been 'new caught' themselves, once. He had been reading a book about the Trolloc Wars all afternoon, written long afterwards (it was not in the Old Tongue) but containing translated fragments of much earlier histories that had since been lost. One contemporary account, attributed to a noted Borderland General whose name was simply recorded as 'Lord Wheylan,' spoke of using a stedding as a defensive bulwark against a horde of Myrddraal and Trollocs - the Shadowspawn could encircle it__, but would be loath to enter. An unusual but effective tactic, it seemed..._

_Q__uestioning the lone Ogier stonemason by the bridge had seemed like a good idea at the time, but perhaps not _this_ question. It was too late to back out now, though. The Ogier stared down at him consideringly for a moment, then sighed, like a gust of cold air from deep within the recesses of a well. What was it they said? As soon pull the mountains down on your head?_

_"It is _not_ something that we like to speak of," the Ogier muttered, his voice like a low roll of thunder in the distance. Then, his dark expression cleared a little, his ears lifted and a rueful smile almost split his face in two. "But Elder Samad always told me that it is the duty of the learned to disseminate knowledge to those who lack wis- that is to say, those who are not well edu-" The Ogier frowned again. "Oh dear, this is all starting to sound rather patronising. I hope that I have not upset you, human?"_

_"Not at all," Atual hastily replied. He's worried that he is going to upset_ me_?_

_The Ogier reached out a massive hand that seemed capable of crushing rocks, gently took a fold of Atual's cloak between two cucumber-sized fingers, examining it with interest._

_"Fancloth," he rumbled. "You are Gaidin?"_

_"Yes," Atual pridefully answered. "At least, I have been for about a month," he added, belatedly. Before that, he had been a Lieutenant with the Companions, a young Blademaster with twelve dead Aiel to his score, that day alone. The thirteenth, a lithe warrior with pretty green eyes above her black veil, had put a spearhead in his guts. His last sight before losing consciousness had been her running gracefully down the lower slopes of Dragonmount, joining her people in their orderly withdrawal while he lay in the snow, bleeding to death. He was a Warder now, true, but if Milona Sedai had not come along when she did, he would have been a corpse instead. Or worse, bonded to Cadsuane Sedai! The legendary Aes Sedai from Far Madding had also been on the lookout for a new Warder, and reportedly had a preference for Gaidin from the city of her birth (or what she described as 'nice, polite, house-trained boys from back home.') The Ogier had nodded patiently, as though his youth and inexperience explained much._

_"Then you may have cause to _need _this knowledge, more than most humans at least. Have you been inside a stedding?" Atual nodded. "How did it feel?"_

_"It felt… wonderful." Really, there was no better word to describe it. The Ogier nodded, clearly this was the answer he had been expecting._

_"Increase that sensation tenfold and you will know how _I_ will feel, to return to my home and my wife, when this work here is done. Now, take that feeling and reverse it – make it terrible instead of wonderful. Magnify that terror by one hundred – and _that_ is how it feels for Shadowspawn who trespass upon the stedding." _

_The Ogier shrugged his enormous shoulders, placed his hands on the scaffolding, preparatory to hauling himself back up. _

"_That is why they so seldom do it," he mumbled, before returning to his work._

Leading Caba by the reins, Atual entered the clearing on foot, beheld the aftermath… and sheathed his sword. The Myrddraal lay on its back in a pool of its own dark blood, covered in hacking, bludgeoning wounds. It was still alive, though barely, its legs bending and straightening slowly as it attempted to rise, heels scraping furrows in the gore-drenched mud. It had not gone down easily. They never did. A dozen Trollocs lay in a circle around it. They must all have attacked at once. Two of them also still lived, though not for long – a tusked monstrosity with one of its brawny arms sliced off at the shoulder clawed weakly at the earth with its remaining hand, while a hawk-faced creature lay on its back, a vicious slash across its chest which rose and fell unevenly. Rare for Trollocs to leave their wounded alive. He supposed they must have been in too much of a hurry. He wished he knew how they had made it past the Watchtowers in the first place, it wasn't like the Arafelin to overlook so large an incursion.

The Myrddraal's horse stood nearby, cropping the sparse grass, ignoring him. Beside it, a long swathe of churned-up earth and crushed vegetation, left by scores of pairs of massive boots as well as the occasional set of paws or hooves, distinct in the mud. The tracks pointed north in a direct line, straight back to the Blight. Atual glanced at the badge on the nearest corpse. Ghraem'lan. He'd _thought_ so.

Atual dropped the reins. Caba stopped walking, as he had been trained to do, his nostrils flaring at the acrid stench of Shadowspawn blood. Though he would not attack without leave, the warhorse did toss his head at the Myrddraal's mount, then reared and whinnied loudly, in challenge. The Darkhorse stared silently for a moment, then turned and trotted away. Caba neighed again, with a note of triumph.

Atual raised an eyebrow. "Looks like you won _that_ one, Horse. But where is the point in fighting when there's no pretty mare watching, for you to impress?" Caba rolled his eyes and snorted. It seemed _he_ knew what the point was, even if Atual did not.

At his approach, the Trolloc on its back lifted its head slightly, vicious beak gaping wide – Atual's sword hissed from the scabbard, rising and falling in one smooth movement, and the head with its crest of stiff feathers rolled across the ground. Without pausing, Atual pivoted and sliced down through the boar-faced Trolloc's neck, flicking the blood from his ancient blade as he approached the Myrddraal. He felt the hatred in its eyeless gaze as he stood over it. Its hand slid toward the hilt of its black sword, lying nearby, stained with Trolloc blood. It was probably too weak to lift it, but that wouldn't stop it trying. Atual kicked the Thakan'dar-wrought blade out of reach. The Myrddraal snarled angrily.

Atual smiled. "Tried to make them follow us inside, didn't you?" Myrddraal took care to instil fear in the Trollocs they commanded, with frequent examples of the perils of disobedience and failure meted-out. It took a lot to make Trollocs forget that fear long enough to turn on their own leader, but an attempt to force them into a hated _stedding_ would certainly have been enough to do it. As the Ogier had told him, all those years ago – one hundred times the terror. In response, the Myrddraal spat at him, acrid blood mixed with saliva falling slightly short of his boot.

Atual's smile widened. "A word of advice, Fade – a good commander never gives his men an order unless he's _fairly_ certain it will be obeyed!"

The Myrddraal cursed at him in its own language, voice croaking like a raven. Atual had learnt a few words of the crude Trolloc speech from Borderland Gaidin, enough to catch their words for 'Warder' and 'Aes Sedai' as well as certain of the obscene acts which the Myrddraal was alleging they performed together.

Atual frowned. "Now, _that_ is the kind of language that tells me you weren't properly raised, by a respectable goodwife – why, my own dear mother would have soon run-out of soap, washing out _your_ mouth!" Atual raised his sword overhead. "Ready, Lurk?"

The Myrddraal took a deep, bubbling breath – its last – and nodded curtly.

"Ready, human…" This time, its words were in the language of its enemy, emerging from its mouth like hollow echoes from a tomb. "But know this, _Swordman_ – some day, one of my Brothers will be the _death_ of you…"

Atual shrugged, shifting his hands on the hilt a little. "Some day, perhaps," he allowed. One did not become a Warder of the White Tower with the expectation of dying in one's bed, after all. "But not today."

The power-wrought blade blurred downwards, finishing the work that the mutinous Trollocs had begun. After cleaning his sword carefully on the Myrddraal's cloak – the way it now flapped in the wind reassuring him that it was finally dead – Atual whistled and Caba trotted over. Vaulting into the saddle, he spared a last glance for the dead Halfman.

"When you get to the Pit, tell them who sent you!"

He rammed in his heels and Caba was at a full gallop before they left the clearing, heading back into the _stedding_. He had good news to deliver.

* * *

After several day's house-arrest followed by a sentence of exile, the carriage that carried Ellyth from her father's town residence did not leave Amador immediately, but took an unexpected detour that no amount of pounding on the roof could force the driver to alter – a detour that led straight to the Fortress of Light. Squeezing through a narrow gate to the rear of the vast fortifications, the carriage pulled up in a small, enclosed courtyard. Ellyth sat alone for a while – she had no maid with her, it would not have been fair to drag one of the poor girls all the way to Tar Valon. Besides, she did not think that novices of the White Tower were permitted maidservants. For all she knew, Aes Sedai used _them_ as maids! After several moments, Ellyth cautiously pushed open the door, stepping down from the carriage and adjusting her wide sun-bonnet. There was no-one there, even the driver was absent. A postern-gate squeaked open and a small, bird-like man, drably clothed, squinted at her from the gloom. He looked like a clerk, but wasn't.

"The Lady Ellythia?" Though phrased as a question, it clearly was not one. Something about this man seemed to suggest that he rarely needed to ask questions, since he already knew the answers.

"Master Balwer, I presume." Father had told her all about Sebban Balwer.

The small man blinked, but otherwise masked his surprise well.

"Would you please follow me, my Lady?"

Balwer proceeded to lead the way up a narrow spiral staircase, through a locked door (which he unlocked with an impressive ring of keys), along several dark hallways and up an even narrower staircase, his stick-thin legs carrying him with surprising speed, so that the young Amadici Noblewoman was feeling somewhat winded when they arrived at the top. Another locked door, which Balwer pulled open carefully – a hidden door, as it turned out, since he had to hold a tapestry aside for her to go through. He did not follow.

"Hello, my dear. I trust that you are well, after your recent illness?"

Ellythia curtsied smoothly, bowing her head to Pedron Niall, Lord Captain Commander of the Children of Light. Niall came around from behind his desk and took Ellythia's hands, raising her to her feet. He was in his middle years, his dark hair speckled with white, but moved like a much younger man. Ellythia let him escort her to a chair and smiled her assent when he offered plum punch, filling two silver-chased goblets from a crystal jug. The Lord Commander Pedron Niall himself, serving her with a beverage! It was a little like having Artur Hawkwing pour you tea!

The Lord Commander sat opposite, smoothing his white tabard and sipping from his goblet. His dark eyes held hers over the rim.

"This morning, my factor finally had the last traces of the Darkfriend assassin removed," he commented. "They had to replace several of the tiles. Whatever it was you did to him, it was hot enough to fuse his bones to the floor, yes? It is the first time in my life that I have almost felt sympathy for a Darkfriend!"

"Would this be the same Darkfriend who tried to kill you, Lord Commander?"

"Yes, _that_ Darkfriend. You remind me very much of your father, young lady." Niall laughed briefly, a harsh, almost angry sound. "You Desiamas! Did you know that Lord Guye _also_ saved my life, at Soremaine? The Illianers were in full retreat so, like a fool, I rode too far ahead... and the accursed Companions nearly caught me when they counter-attacked. Your father gave me his mount after mine was shot from under me, and took an arrow in the hip for his trouble."

_So _that_ was why father limped – he always claimed a horse threw him…_

Niall drained the last of his punch. "Your House seems to make a habit of preserving my life. I shall have to keep your young brother close, as a good luck charm. Perhaps this will keep him from embroiling himself in further trouble, yes?"

Ellythia hoped that Thaeus would be released from the infirmary soon. One of the other Cadets had called his sister a witch, and they had duelled over the matter, which Cadets really were not supposed to do. His opponent was in worse shape, at least. She wanted to ask why she was here, why she was not on her way to Ebou Dar. But she did not.

_"Pedron may wish to have words with you before you go," Father had told her. "Let the old fox do all of the talking, he loves the sound of his own voice, but do not agree to anything, yes? And beware his dusty little secretary, the one who resembles a bird – that man is a lot more than he seems. He has had my own carriage-driver watching me for years, and believes I do not know!"_

Niall realised that no amount of silence would prompt anything from Ellythia. He sighed. "You have brought me a great deal of trouble, young lady," he chided, "Asunawa has been demanding your death for the last month, sending his lap dog Carridin here every day with dire threats, yes?" Niall scowled. He had the strong impression that neither Questioner would have been mortified if the Darkfriend's blade had found its way into his back. And he had this skinny young girl to thank that it had not! The One Power was a strange and frightening thing.

"I am surprised to hear that the High Inquisitor has threatened his own Lord Captain Commander." Ellythia raised an eyebrow slightly, in what she hoped might seem the calculated emphasis of an expert player of _daes dae'mar_... and then spoilt the effect by blushing.

"I did not say that the threats were levelled against _me_." Niall gazed at her for a moment. "Balwer!" The little man hopped from behind the tapestry, where he had been lurking. "What was it today?"

Balwer bobbed up and down a little, then coughed dryly. "Mostly the usual warnings, but this time Child-Inquisitor Carridin also shouted something about..." (he glanced at Ellythia apologetically) "_not_ suffering a witch to live? I believe that those were his words. Then, he left."

"Yes, that is the best part, when Carridin _leaves_." Niall returned his gaze to Ellythia, holding her eyes for a long moment. She did not blink. Eventually he sighed, leaned back in his chair, one leg crossed over the other. "Balwer, tell the Lady Ellythia about… the dress-maker."

Ellythia blinked. _Dress-maker? He is going to express his gratitude by having some _dresses _made for me?_

Balwer cleared his throat, fixed his small bright eyes on Ellythia.

"There is a small shop, that sells gowns and also, I believe, _hats_, on a certain street of Tar Valon, the proprietor of which is, let us say, amenable to the Children." Ellythia frowned. "The aforesaid person keeps pigeons on her roof, pigeons that will fly directly to the coops of The Fortress carrying any… information that, for example, a novice of the Tower might happen to overhear." Ellythia's frown became a scowl. "My Lady, were you to be given the location of this shop, the name of the proprietor and certain phrases by which you might identify yourself to her-"

"You want me to be a… a bloody _spy?_" Ellythia set her goblet down in the middle of Niall's stones board, slopping punch liberally, and stood, red-faced with anger. It was easily the most insulting suggestion she had ever entertained! Not that she _had_ entertained it… _pigeons indeed!_

Balwer licked his lips and glanced at the Lord Commander, who wore a thin smile and shook his head ruefully. Finally, Niall began to laugh. Something he was clearly unaccustomed to doing, since the laughter swiftly degenerated into a coughing fit.

"Do you see, Balwer?" Niall wheezed, when he had got his breath back, "I _told_ you that she would not be interested, yes? A daughter of House Desiama would _never_ lower herself to anything so dishonourable!" Niall stood, and favoured Ellythia with a bow, as to a worthy adversary. "You certainly _are_ your father's daughter. Unfortunately. Balwer, conduct the Lady Ellythia back to her carriage, if you please. Farewell, my dear. I do hope that you have a pleasant voyage, and that I never have cause to regret sparing your life." Thus, in the space of moments, began and ended Ellythia's espionage career.

* * *

Ah, _here_ he was. Atual rode out of the night, narrowed his eyes slightly at Aebel and Blaek, who each took a step back from Ellyth, touching their sword hilts in the same unconscious way. Warders could be ridiculously possessive, Atual would not have liked his report being delivered by other Gaidin before _he_ had the chance. He swung down from the saddle, stepped closer, and delivered it anyway.

"Shadowspawn have gone back to the Blight, Mistress."

"I see. You know this for certain?"

"They killed their Myrddraal and fled."

The Twins glanced at each other. They had seen the departing column of running Trollocs in the distance, but no dark rider at its head. Now, they knew why.

"And how could you know this, if you did not leave the _stedding_?"

"But I _did_ leave the _stedding_, Mistress, to ensure they were truly gone. It might have been a trick. Shadowspawn are cunning."

Atual's face was blank, expressionless. Ellyth sighed. It was not that men from Far Madding were any less wilful or pig-headed than men from elsewhere – just that they did tend to be more honest _about_ their wilful pig-headedness, _after_ the fact. She wasn't sure if it was an improvement or not. Ellyth narrowed her eyes slightly. Atual could have been carved out of stone, she could feel… _patience_, through the bond. _Ah, this was getting them nowhere!_

"Very well. Fetch the packs and saddlebags. It is high time we left also."

Atual nodded and stepped smartly away, toward the dell where their dwindling stock of supplies still lay. The Twins ran a few steps to catch up with him, eager to leave this place. Shrina rode up, leaning down from the saddle.

"Warder problems?" she enquired.

Ellyth stepped into the stirrup and gracefully mounted Eradore, who tossed her mane and whickered. She patted the mare comfortingly. "Why don't you put that oversized bread-knife away before you manage to hurt yourself with it?"

Shrina smirked, then pointed the blade south.

"We ride for Tar Valon!" she announced, like a Gleeman reciting the Great Hunt. Badly.

Atual led the way as they crossed the invisible boundary of the _stedding_. The Twins flanked him to either side, cautiously scanning the night.

The moment they crossed, Ellyth felt… _different_. It was like having an eye missing, and not realising until it suddenly returned. She immediately opened herself to _saidar_, embracing the Source. Beside her, Shrina did likewise, and took a deep breath. "Ah, that feels better…"

The One Power filled her, completed her. It felt like draining a flagon of cool spring water after days in a parched desert. Senses heightened by _saidar_, she couldn't help overhearing the comments from up ahead that were probably not intended for her ears. Gaidin always saved their grumbling for each other.

"Bloody Trollocs and a flaming Myrddraal, close enough to spit on, and I barely get my blade wet!" Atual's deep voice was not resentful, just… disappointed. "I know the safety of the Sisters comes first, but it all seems a bit too much like hiding and turning-tail for my stomach!"

The Twins nodded glumly. They had bided their time up on the low, stony hill, feathering the occasional Trolloc scout with arrows, but that had soon become boring. Oddly, the hill itself had been scattered with ancient arrow-heads, as well as other relics of some long-forgotten battle...

"Yes indeed, we feel like the mouse running from his hole-"

"-after the cat has been good enough to stop watching it!"

"Would you two sentence-sharing oilfishers _stop_ bloody doing that!"

Ellyth's lips quirked. So Atual found it irritating too!

Shrina glanced at her. Mistaking Ellyth's expression for a grimace of regret, she did her best to provide words of comfort. Shrina's 'best' when it came to commiseration was not much to sing about, however.

"Come now, Ellyth, I _know_ the ruined watchtower turned out to be empty of any _ter'angreal_, despite the rumours, but at least we managed to find _one_. Add the fact that we _didn't_ get killed and eaten by Shadowspawn, and I'd call it a success!" Shrina finally sheathed her ridiculous sword and blithely continued. "Well, perhaps not a success, exactly – but we've had _bigger_ failures… remember Haddon Mirk?"

This time, Ellyth really did grimace. She eyed Shrina coldly. "I try not to."

* * *

Godan had proved to be an uncomfortably humid, inhospitable town, infested with black flies. Infested with Darkfriends also, though _they_ did more than inflict painful bites. The three of them had been travelling clandestinely, she and Shrina using false names at Inns, their rings hidden away. Yet _someone_ knew who they were, and why they were there… after foiling the third assassination attempt on the Sisters in as many days, even Atual began to express concern. Clearly, they had been betrayed. Worryingly, the betrayal must have come from within the Tower.

Atual's task of keeping them alive might have been eased if Shrina had yet bonded Aebel and Blaek, but they did not meet the brothers from Mayene until a week later, in Haddon Mirk. After preliminary misunderstandings (in which the men came close to stabbing each other) it transpired that the Twins were hunting the _same_ group of Darkfriends and, this being the case, they might as well join forces. Provided that the Twins understood who was giving the orders.

Ellyth sighed regretfully – they had arrived in that vile city days too late to prevent the Darkfriends from removing the secret store of _ter'angreal_ they had come to find, had tracked them into that filthy swamp, even managing to briefly steal the artefacts back. But, lost in the Mirk and ambushed by the remaining Darkfriends, led by a renegade Wilder whose crude weaves of Fire were nonetheless effective – and, in the midst of fighting for their lives, to have the cursed cart (burning fiercely by this point) lose a wheel and go tipping into the mire…

It was far too dangerous to use weaves of Air to pull the _ter'angreal_ from the mud, since they had no idea how they would react. Risking their lives (and ruining their clothing), Atual, along with Aebel and Blaek, had done their best to save some of the _ter'angreal_, snatching strange, oddly-shaped items of crystal or metal from the sucking ooze and tossing them to the frantic Sisters on the bank. But most had been lost, and were still down there, as far as she knew. Haddon Mirk had swallowed entire _armies_, what chance did a few _ter'angreal_ have?

The whole thing had been a massive failure. Still, Shrina had finally met her Warders (though they did not know it yet) which was something at least – travelling and sharing a room with a young Green who hadn't yet made her first Bonding was, Ellyth considered, not all that different from living in the Pit of Doom.

* * *

Ellyth sat cross-legged beside the camp fire, holding the _ter'angreal_ up to the flames and peering through it. It was not yet dark – after travelling hard all night and for part of the next day, they had camped earlier than usual, so as not to overtax the horses – but the light was fading and it was easier to examine the Crystal that way. It appeared to contain no flaws, whatsoever, yet held up to sun or fire light, it became opaque and milky so that nothing could be seen through it. Ellyth sighed, lowering the _ter'angreal_ to her lap. The cursed things always had to have _something_ about them that defied the natural order!

They were camped in the lee of an ancient, crumbling wall, made up of massive blocks of pale stone, perhaps all that remained of a border fortress of the Kingdom of Elsalam, reduced to rubble by the siege-engines of Artur Hawkwing a thousand years previously. Or it could be a thousand years older than _that_, dating back to fabled Aramaelle itself, part of a walled garrison town destroyed in the Trolloc Wars. No-one was sure. Renn might have known... Ellyth wondered what her Brown Ajah friend would make of the Crystal. But whatever its provenance, the wall sheltered them from the biting wind, and for that Ellyth was grateful.

On the other side of the small blaze, Atual lay back against his saddle, long legs stretched out, swathed in his cloak. He appeared to be asleep, undisturbed by the muted clack of practice swords against each other in the background. His chest rose and fell evenly. Ellyth smiled crookedly, snagging one of the small pine-cones that had escaped being used as a fire-lighter – with a quick movement, she threw it at his head. Atual's eyes flicked open, his hand blurred up to his face, neatly catching the cone before it could hit him. He smiled back at her, then tossed the pine-cone into the fire and closed his eyes again.

"I will catch you out one day," she muttered. _The man was uncanny!_

"No you won't," was Atual's mumbled response, already half-asleep again. Ellyth shook her head ruefully, returning her attention to the _ter'angreal_. Perhaps if she tried just a small, careful flow of Spirit… The noise of practice swords striking against each other redoubled, interspersed with occasional enthusiastic cries… in an unmistakeably female voice.

Ellyth frowned, glancing up. Aebel (or perhaps it was Blaek) crouched by his saddle, watching as Blaek (or perhaps Aebel) defended himself. Shrina was pressing him, moving from one sword-form to another with the same grace she showed on the dance-floor, her divided skirts not seeming to hamper her, practice sword striking at the young Warder's head, hands and knees in a wooden blur. Her face was flushed, teeth flashing, she appeared to be enjoying herself… and making enough noise to wake the dead. _How can Atual sleep through that? _Shrina's enthusiasm got the better of her, she overextended herself in a lunge and her opponent deftly side-stepped, his thin lathes of wood slapping against the tempting target that momentarily presented itself.

"Ouch!" Shrina lowered the practice blade, rubbing her bottom ruefully. "A dishonourable tactic!" The young Gaidin smiled winningly, then bowed, a hand over his heart.

"Forgive me, Shrina Sedai," he murmured, "but I could not resist."

Shrina hissed like an angry feline, then tossed the practice-sword to the other Twin. "Blaek, come over here and teach your brother a lesson."

"Gladly, Shrina Sedai!" responded the other Warder, snatching the wooden blade from the air and flowing into an attack-stance. The Twins closed on each other, shifting from form to form like quicksilver, the clacking of wooden lathes redoubling.

Shrina came over to join Ellyth, easing herself down onto her bedroll gingerly. "Wicked boy – he'll pay for that!"

Ellyth stared at the Twins, two mirror-images spinning, crouching, lunging, their practice blades moving almost too fast to see. It looked like someone fighting _himself_… and winning! "How can you even tell them apart?"

"Well, it's not easy, granted, but I would say that Aebel has a sardonic temperament, whereas Blaek's personality is more… sartorial."

"That does not help. Perhaps they could wear paper labels with their names on?"

"I tried that, when we first met, but they kept wearing _each other's_ name in jest."

"They could style their hair differently?" Ellyth suggested.

Shrina was aghast. "You're not giving one of my lads _ringlets!_"

"What is wrong with ringlets?"

"Nothing, when they're on _you_. But if it's purely _physical_ differences you're looking for, then I can tell you that Aebel has a small mole on his left buttock, whereas Blaek's is on his right-"

"That is a _little_ more information than I required! I must ask your Gaidin to drop their britches every time I wish to identify them, yes?"

"Well, it's not a _bad_ idea… they do have very pretty bottoms, after all!"

"Shrina! You are incorrigible!"

"I do my best, but it's hard work at times… I see that you're still playing with your precious _ter'angreal_. Did you know that you were holding _saidar_, by the way?"

Ellyth blinked. It was true, she _was_… but she could not remember embracing the Source, just considering whether a small flow of Spirit might…

Shrina was watching her carefully, her outward veneer of irreverence gone in an instant, to reveal the perceptive intellect that lay beneath. Those who underestimated Shrina, who dismissed her as a typical Green with no other thoughts than those of bed or battle – well, they had lived to regret it. With the exception of several Darkfriends, who had not.

"You're not thinking of _testing_ the bloody thing, are you?"

"Well…"

"Ellyth, that's extremely _dangerous_! Remember Caemlyn?"

Ellyth glanced across the campfire, already knowing what she would see. Atual's eyes were open. He did not _say_ anything, he would not presume, but she knew what he was thinking. More to the point, she knew what he was _feeling_, through the Bond. Not a pleasant sensation.

Ellyth had once tested a small, square plaque that looked as though it were made of some rough iron, but was as smooth as glass. It had an open eye inscribed on one side, a closed eye on the other. She had found it in Caemlyn, in the back of a cutlers' shop in the New City, right at the bottom of a box full of odd scraps of metal. It felt very old, very powerful, she had sensed it from several streets away and been drawn to it. She brought it back to her room at the Queen's Blessing. Just one thin, exploratory flow of Spirit, that was all…

_Ellyth opened her eyes with difficulty, they seemed to be gummed together. Her head was pounding, her mouth dry… how long had she been asleep?_

_"She's awake!" Shrina leant over her, relief washing over her features. Her eyes were red, she appeared to have been crying. _What had happened?

_Atual appeared on the other side of the bed, glaring – but she could feel the worry ebbing away from him through the Bond, feel his own extreme relief._

"_What..?" she murmured. Her throat felt like the Aiel Waste…_

_Atual carefully helped her to sip water from a beaker while Shrina explained. When she tested the ter'angreal, Atual had felt her disappear, as though the bond between them had been severed. __He had leapt to his feet and dashed from the Inn's small library, upsetting the stones board and frightening Master Gill out of his wits. He found Ellyth slumped in the corner of her room, apparently lifeless. Atual carried her to the bed – he could no longer sense her through the bond, and yet he had felt his Aes Sedai die once before and this was not the same. _

_Fortunately, Shrina returned from the Palace before Atual had to go and look for her, bursting into Ellyth's room in a foul mood. _

_"Ellyth, you won't believe what that idiot Elaida has done now-" Shrina stared. "Watcher's Oath! What happened?"_

_Atual held up the small iron plaque. This, as well as a faint residue of Spirit in the room, answered her question. Shrina had immediately delved Ellyth - she was still alive, though barely, her breathing and heart-beat slowed to almost nothing. Healing had no effect on Ellyth's condition, so they put her into bed and waited for her to either wake, or to die. There was nothing else they could do. For seven days. _

_His Aes Sedai was as weak as a kitten – after carefully feeding her some chicken broth and wiping her mouth, Atual had taken advantage of this fact to __give Ellyth the worst dressing-down she had received from a man since the time she was called to her father's study for throwing a rock at a passing Questioner. And she had always suspected that, despite the shouting, Lord Guye had actually been quite proud of her..._

"_With all due respect, Mistress, have you taken leave of your bloody senses?" Atual was clearly _furious! _Ellyth could count on the fingers of one hand the amount of times he had raised his voice to her, casting aside that Far Madding-bred deference to women. The tirade continued in this fashion for some time, while she did her best to keep the broth down and wished that her pounding head would ease a little. __Ellyth eventually__ tried to restore the chain of command, but it was difficult when she was too exhausted to lift her head from the pillow and her Gaidin was looming right over her with a face like a storm-cloud. Atual was a capable man, extremely proficient at a great many things. Unfortunately, looming was one of them._

"_I…" that was as far as she got._

"_Light! Do you even _recall _what became of… of Milona Sedai?" Even now, he still had trouble saying the name of the Yellow Sister he had served faithfully for fifteen years. Milona had died testing a ter'angreal, a device from the Age of Legends, an oval table carved from a block of crystal. She was convinced that it could be used to Heal complaints of the heart that traditional Healing would not affect without killing the patient. No-one knew exactly what became of her – only that after her Warder raised the alarm, she was found on the table with a small, neat hole burned directly through her chest. _

_Atual had been inconsolable fo__r months, had stalked the grounds in black moods, refusing to eat, slowly wasting-away. Even those Green Sisters who specialised in saving Warders who had lost their Aes Sedai despaired. One day, a newly-raised Blue Sister had approached him. She planned to journey to the dark, forgotten places of the World, to find weapons of Power with which to fight the Last Battle. She was young and inexperienced, and without a seasoned Gaidin at her side, would probably be dead within the year. She had quietly approached the big, unshaven man, his long hair hanging matted and unkempt about his face, his red-rimmed eyes like those of a wild beast – a beast that might ferociously lash-out at any moment. _

_Ellyth betrayed no fear, merely gazed up at Atual with calm expectancy._

"_I need you," she had said, simply._

_Atual's rage had ebbed-away. He needed to be needed. He knelt at her feet._

"_Then bond me..."_

Ellyth had no need to be reminded of what had happened in Caemlyn, but Shrina took great pains to remind her of it anyway, while Atual stared at her in a vaguely accusing, wounded way throughout. It was certainly an effective method of dissuasion, she felt like suggesting that they knit themselves grey-fringed shawls and take up mediation together! In the background, the Twins continued their onslaught against each other, without showing any signs of tiring.

Ellyth felt guilty. She understood their feelings, knew that they arose from the concern of the two people who perhaps cared for her most in the World, who had stood vigil over her bedside for a week the last time she tested one of the _ter'angreal _her Talent had brought to light… so she tucked the Crystal away, murmuring, "perhaps you are right, it should not be examined until we are back in the Tower."

As such, Ellyth waited until late that night, when Wards of Spirit were set protecting the camp and everyone else was getting much-needed sleep, before testing the _ter'angreal_.

In the morning, Shrina eyed her shrewdly.

"Well?" she asked.

"Well, what?"

"Ah, defeated once again by that legendary Aes Sedai inscrutability!"

Ellyth sighed, then glanced carefully over her shoulder. Atual was with the Twins over by the ancient wall, they had spread a large map out on the ground and seemed to be bickering over the best route back to Shol Arbela, or perhaps Tar Valon, if they meant to bypass the Arafelin capital altogether. Shrina was still staring at her expectantly. Ellyth sighed again. The Green Sister, who was the closest thing she had to a _real_ sister, knew her too well. Far too well.

"I was very careful. An _extremely_ thin flow of Spirit, and a pulsing light appeared on the _ter'angreal_. I did not channel again. That is all."

"That's all? I half-expected you to be _gone_ when I woke up. Or perhaps, instead of you… a tree."

"A tree?"

"There might be a _ter'angreal _that turns people into trees, for all we know!"

"Yes, but, why a tree? Why not a cat, or a stone?"

"Bah! Never mind! A light, you say? What do you think it means? Never mind that, what does it _do_?"

"I have no idea." Ellyth thought of her note-book, where she had scribbled down as much as she could recall of the third time she had gone through the silver arches. "But this Crystal is important – Shrina, I remembered! I saw it in my Testing!"

Shrina stared. Aes Sedai who had known each other since they were novices together, even the closest of _pillow-friends_, still _never_ mentioned what took place in their Testings. Even for someone as nonconformist as Shrina, there were some things that were just not _done_! "That's… interesting. Well, what are we going to do now?"

Ellyth stepped into the saddle, as did Shrina. It took a moment for them to bring their mounts under control, while Ellyth considered. "Do? What do we _always_ do when we are unsure of some ancient knowledge that might be hidden away in dusty tomes in the dim recesses of the Library? Something that we are not wise enough to know about ourselves, yes?"

Shrina grinned. "We ask Renn!"

"Yes we do."


	3. 2: Beneath the Black College

_The attitude of the Hall to my work has often confused and confounded me. If __your enemy breeds a vicious wolf with which to terrorise you, why then is it wrong to breed a ferocious wolfhound for your own protection? Fight fire with fire and the whole World burns, they say. But the World is already burning._

**Chaime ****Kufer Mors, Aes Sedai - **_**Selected Justifications **_**(proscribed text)**

* * *

_**Chapter 2 **__*** Beneath the Collam Doon**_

"Sleep sound, my Son." The voice of Chaime Kufer whispered in the small chamber, almost drowned-out by the loud hum of the Stasis Box activating.

The Locator Key, a flattened crystal sphere, pulsed steadily in the casing as the lid swung shut, a crimson light in its centre flashing rhythmically. Completing its activation cycle, the Box, which had been a clear crystalline case when open, swiftly faded to pale opacity. A final glimpse of the contents – lying back in seeming-repose, hands folded on a chest which had ceased to rise and fall mid-breath – fading from sight, as the last vestiges of transparency leached from the casing.

Chaime found the dimensions disturbingly coffin-like, though the occupant was certainly still alive. It was not a large Box compared with some, only nine spans long and three wide. It was unrelieved, lacking any detail, the exception being the aperture at one end where the Key fit. It nearly filled the low antechamber – the very best Stasis Box he had been able to acquire at short notice, an original Corbesan design. Probably not constructed by the Master himself, of course, but at least a copy by one of his more gifted apprentices.

The Stasis Box was as close to being indestructible as anything could be, in these so-destructive times. Chaime doubted that even balefire could mark the _cuendillar _casing, now – once activated, a Box and its contents somehow existed _outside_ of time, and could not be burned from the pattern in which it had ceased to belong. He didn't really understand the technology, his field had always been Mutable Biology, not Temporal Mechanics.

Chaime stroked his thin, drooping moustaches thoughtfully, a habitual gesture. The long strands of twisted, white hair hanging to either side of his thin-lipped mouth were distinctive enough, even without taking into account his hairless skull, honey-coloured skin and dark, almond-shaped eyes – melancholy eyes that held terrible knowledge. He had seen things that would have driven most people insane. Sometimes, he wondered if they had. But it was the stringy moustaches that marked him out – they were an affectation, a defunct style, dead these last three hundred years. He remembered a time when all the young men of N'zoar, the Floating City, had cultivated them in emulation of a famous Song-Poet who hailed from there, to honour him for winning the Golden Wreath that year. Chaime could not even recall the Poet's name (though he occasionally still hummed pieces of his verse-symphonies while he worked) and N'zoar itself had been destroyed with balefire a long time ago. But he continued to clip and carefully groom the strands of hair each morning. It was his last link with the past, with an innocent time when strange fashions had held sway each season, only to be replaced by stranger ones the next. His last connection with a lost World, over which the Shadow had not yet fallen.

Chaime considered the unexpected news his Son had brought. So Latra was dead, was she? The Cutter of the Shadow, her own thread cut from the Pattern. He grimaced. _Shadar Nor! _The Warmen had begun to call Latra that and the name had spread throughout the ranks of the considerable forces she commanded. He suspected that she had _hated_ the name. Poor Latra… all she had ever really wanted to do was study music. They had been lovers once, in another Age, so long ago that it might as well have been another life. Of course, Latra had later been chief amongst those who called for his execution, but he had powerful supporters in the Hall who opposed them – strange that he owed his life to the Dragon!

There were those who blamed Latra Posae Decume, Aes Sedai, for the failure of the Strike on Shayol Ghul. Chaime was not among them. True, she had lead the opposition to this dangerous plan from the first, had been the architect of the Fateful Concord, uniting all of the most powerful female Aes Sedai into a coalition that flatly refused to take so enormous a risk. But by this point the War was all but lost, the _Choedan Kal_ taken, the ultimate victory of the Shadow only weeks away. Desperate times called for desperate measures.

So, Lews Therin Telamon had taken the risk anyway, without them. Some said that had Latra permitted female Aes Sedai to accompany the Dragon on his surprise attack, _saidin_ might not have been tainted by the Dark One's backlash. Chaime thought that if she had, _saidar_ might well be tainted also, in which case all would be truly lost. Madmen who could channel were bad enough – but insane _women _wielding the One Power! It was too horrifying to even contemplate.

If fault lay anywhere, it lay with Lews Therin. Chaime had always loathed the high-ranking Servants of the Hall who ran the War-effort, but Telamon was different. When he looked at someone and spoke to them, he gave the absolute conviction that they were more than just another piece to be moved around a board. He cared about every life lost in the War that he prosecuted so vigourously, most especially if it was lost at his command. Chaime had admired him enormously, if reluctantly, had even respected him. A grudging respect, but impossible to deny. Perhaps it was being _ta'veren_ that did it, but he would have willingly gone to his death if the Dragon had asked it of him. So would anyone who followed him – _that _was his strength.

Lews Therin Telamon had been a great man in every sense of the word, great in wisdom, great in compassion. But his arrogance had been equally great. Chaime sighed. Lews should have heeded his warnings… and remembered that no-one played _tcheran_ better than the Dark One. Even if you somehow managed to _win... _well, Shai'tan could be a _very_ poor loser.

Concentrating, Chaime managed to channel a final, thin flow of Spirit into the Locator Key, doing his best to ignore the oily taint that now clung to _saidin_. The crystalline _ter'angreal_ quieted, the crimson light in its centre fading. He carefully removed the Key from the casing and bounced the heavy Crystal thoughtfully on his palm for a moment, before slipping it into the velvet pouch attached to the belt of his robe. Exiting the antechamber, Chaime turned and looked one last time on the cold length of the Stasis Box.

"Fare thee well, Last Lightborn."

His voice echoed flatly in the empty, dusty chamber. All of the equipment; the vats, tubules and culture flasks, had long since been removed, leaving the large chamber hollow and bare. The shocklance was still leaning against the wall where he had left it. Chaime hefted its cold, murderous length for a moment, frowning, then discharged several bolts into the arch above the antechamber's portal. Bright sparks flared, chips of stone flew, and a cascade of rubble sealed the entrance. It was a less efficient way to hide what lay inside than the powerful Wards that he was no longer able to weave, but it would have to do.

There was a trickle of wetness on Chaime's face, a stinging pain. He raised a hand and felt the flow of blood from his torn cheek, where a flying splinter of stone had cut him. He had never fired a shocklance before. He had not realised quite how destructive the effects were – his wrists ached fiercely from the powerful recoil. It had been weeks since the Warmen garrison had been redeployed south, where rumour had it a vast fortress was being constructed on the new coastline. Before they left, he had made a Warman show him how to fire the weapon, but he supposed that in spite of the detailed instruction, he had not been holding it correctly. He felt vaguely foolish.

Discarding the shocklance, Chaime paced swiftly up the shallow, spiralling ramp that lead from the underground chamber, his black robes billowing about his slender frame. The small dagger _ter'angreal_ hung about his neck on a silk cord bounced annoyingly against his narrow chest as he walked, but he never took it off. The innocuous, dull blade had hidden him from the Dark One's anger for nearly half a century. It was worth the irritation. Pausing at the top of the ramp, he gazed down over the balcony at what had been his laboratory, the place where he had been most fulfilled, where he had carried out his greatest works. All over now. All done. All for nothing. Leaving, he spared a final glance for the large frieze carved into the wall opposite the main entrance, deliberately placed so that it would be the first thing a visitor saw.

It depicted a mythical creature, as mythical as the Dragon itself – the Manticore, a crouching lion's body with a man's head. A Manticore's face was usually represented as that of a wild, bearded male, sharp teeth bared in a savage grin. _This_ face was thin, drawn, set in an arrogant half-smile – someone enjoying a private joke that he did not mean to share. The head looked incongruous, attached to the body of a beast. It was supposed to. Besides, anyone familiar with the features of Ishar Morradd Chuain would instantly recognise _that_ face. Chaime had carved the frieze himself in an idle moment, with a small stone-cutter. He had always found sculpting a relaxing diversion from his labours. Had his life followed a different path, had he not been begun to touch the Source as a youth and been selected for Initiate Training, he might have been happier as an Artist.

Chaime smiled coldly as he left the Collam Doon for the last time. Giving the monstrous hybrid the face of his former mentor – a man the world had come to know as 'Aginor' – had been a rare attempt at humour on his part. It had failed miserably, of course. Most of his few visitors, particularly those from the Hall of Servants, had thought the frieze in extremely poor taste.

Outside, Chaime's followers awaited him in two distinct groups, one clad in the _cadin'sor_, the other in grey robes. He approached the Da'shain first, since they were not the group he would be travelling with. There were twenty Aiel, all young men except for Ledrin – those who had chosen to remain when the rest of their people left for Paaren Disen. They stood patiently, gripping the bridles of their horses harder than they needed to, occasionally flinching when one of the mounts moved its large head too close to them. The horses detected their inexperience and rolled their eyes nervously. Horse-riding had always been a popular pastime amongst enthusiasts for such healthy, outdoor activities, but the Aiel traditionally preferred to travel on their own feet. Now, of course, riding was no longer an antique hobby – it was an absolute necessity. _How far we have fallen…_

Chaime missed his jo-car, long since appropriated as a vital war-resource. He supposed that it had been armoured and sent north, with all of the others. That had been many years ago, he had not seen such a vehicle since the early days of the Breaking. Instead of a jo-car then, a large cart hitched to four more horses stood behind, two Aiel up on the seat, one gripping the reins inexpertly. The bed of the cart was almost filled by a large, oddly twisted redstone doorway, lying flat and bound in place with ropes, partially covered with canvas. The same Doorway that he had stepped through months before, to have his questions answered. Other items in open crates were crammed around it - metallic statues and crystalline spheres, the few _ter'angreal_ that the Collam had still contained.

The Da'shain were to join the vast column of Aiel that had set out from Paaren Disen, carrying similar items. If they could find them. Solinda had not specified anything in her single, terse communication, but Chaime assumed that the _ter'angreal_ were to be stored somewhere, stockpiled against the day when rebuilding could begin. He had little interest in such plans. He had already made his _own_ commitment to the future.

Ledrin stepped forward, looking concerned, even more so than usual. There were strands of white in his reddish hair, deep lines of worry and grief marking his face, but he still moved with youthful grace, his soft, laced boots scuffing over the broken surface of the roadway. He towered over Chaime, somehow managing to loom diffidently. Chaime had always wondered how he did that.

"You are hurt, Chaime Sedai…" Ledrin glanced past his shoulder at the entrance to the Collam, a semi-circular opening in the low dome. Clearly, he was wondering why Chaime had emerged alone, without the visitor he had sent for. He would not ask, though. It would be impolite.

"My Son remains, to continue my work."

"Yes, of course. Please, Chaime Sedai, you are bleeding, take this to staunch the flow… if you require Healing, I am sure that Jojin Sedai would provide it…"

Chaime sighed, accepting the small square of cloth and pressing it to his face. Ledrin would not be silent until he did. The Da'shain could be overly-solicitous, Ledrin most of all. He had served Chaime for all of his life, as had his mother before him.

"It is nothing, really… a small cut only… are your people ready, Ledrin?"

"They are, Chaime Sedai. But may we not remain to serve you?"

"It is too dangerous. You know why you cannot be among us."

"We are not afraid, Chaime Sedai." Ledrin's green eyes were clear, unblinking. He would go to his death without flinching, the stare seemed to say.

"I am well aware of that. You are a braver man than I, and we both know it. But you have served me faithfully and well for many years, my friend. Your murder at the hands of a madman would be a poor repayment for that service."

Ledrin blushed. He had never been able to accept praise easily. "If it is my time to die, then so be it," he murmured, "the leaf falls when the wind blows." This was true – but the wind had been blowing hard for a long time, a veritable gale of death, for his people most of all.

"The Da'shain will keep the Covenant, then?"

"We will keep the Covenant, Chaime Sedai, no matter what may befall us."

Chaime wished he could suggest that his Aiel take a more practical approach to their own preservation – but he knew that such a suggestion would only insult them. Instead, he did his best to summon a smile, and clasped Ledrin's hand in farewell.

"We will not meet again in this life. Go in peace, Ledrin. I hope that you and your kin can find some corner of the World where that which has been lost yet survives."

Ledrin bowed formally, and behind him the others did likewise, the two Aiel in the cart rising to perform this final obedience. When Ledrin straightened, his eyes glistened and he blinked back tears. His voice choked.

"Honour to serve, Aes Sedai. Always."

Chaime watched as the Da'shain clambered awkwardly onto their horses and rode slowly away, the cart trundling after, weaving a little. He had lived a long life. He had done terrible things. His heart was a stone… but if, after all these terrible years, there had still been the capacity for pity left within him, then he would have reserved it for the Da'shain Aiel.

Jojin stepped up, seizing the source. The young man in the pale grey robes had dark, slanted eyes and always kept his hair close-cropped, like a Warman, which Chaime supposed was also an affectation of sorts. Jojin grimaced as the taint filled him along with _saidin_, but quickly cast a healing weave. Chaime felt the blood flow down his face cease, the torn skin knitting together. He nodded his thanks. Jojin also glanced back at the Collam with an air of curiosity.

"Will the Lightborn be joining us, Master?"

"No. He stays."

Jojin blinked, but knew better than to question. There was merely inscrutable – and then, there was the Master. Jojin followed as Chaime paced over to the other group, a dozen young men wearing the same pale grey robes. They stood attentively in a semi-circle, all except for Orim, who sat cross-legged in front of the metallic, triangular construct of the Gateward, staring fixedly at it. It was his turn to maintain the flows on the device. Chaime glanced at Jojin.

"Have there been any further attempts?" he asked.

"No, Master."

The day before, someone had tried to Travel to the Collam. Using _saidar_. Chaime wondered about that. Attempting Travel to a location protected by a Gateward produced much the same effect as trying to Travel _from_ one that lay within the corona of a Dreamspike – the weave simply fell apart, leaving just a resonance at the other end. He had no idea why a female Aes Sedai wanted to Travel here, and did not intend staying long enough to find out. A male Aes Sedai would have been of greater concern – but an unwelcome visitor was an unwelcome visitor, after all.

Of course, the Gateward had been maintained primarily to prevent one of the remaining Companions from dropping into his lap – although an aspect of their destructive madness did seem to involve them _walking_ everywhere, rather than Travelling. Thank the Creator for small mercies. And Gatewards. The devices had been created during the War, a vital tactical resource employed by both sides, to prevent sneak attacks.

"I think we can dispense with the ward, then."

Jojin nodded, leant down and tapped Orim on the shoulder. The blonde, square-jawed young man glanced up at him, then ceased channelling. Now, they would be able to Travel from here – Gatewards prevented departures as well as they did arrivals. Chaime considered – Orim was perhaps the strongest in Earth, and since he still held the Source anyway…

"Orim, please be so good as to pull the cliff down over the entrance."

Orim's eyes widened a little, but he knew better than to question the Master either. They stood back as he manipulated a dozen massive weaves into the rock face above the dome, bringing it crashing down to block the entrance to the Collam. It would take more than several hundred tons of rock to crush the dome, however. Places such as this had been built to last.

Chaime waved ineffectually at the cloud of rock dust that swirled around them. There had been a time when he could have done that himself – he could have moved an entire mountain, had he wished. But that was _before_ – before his sentencing by the Hall of Servants and the removal of his third name in censure, before they imposed the shield that left him able only to channel the merest trickle of _saidin_. It could have been worse. There were many in the Hall who had demanded he be severed entirely from the Source. _And_ his head. The dust dissipated around him. His apprentices were waiting expectantly. Chaime cleared his throat.

"We proceed with the plan. We find a _stedding_ in which to safely regroup. We establish communication with the others, and gather our strength. Then, when we are ready, we initiate the Process." The young men nodded. The Process – to cleanse _saidin _of the taint. They were eager to begin. "Jojin?"

Jojin produced a gridmap, points of light flaring to life across its surface.

"It looks as though we have at least three viable locations within the area you selected, Master – the resident Ogier were all evacuated years ago, so we will not have any indigenes to worry about. The intervening topography has changed, of course, but we should be able to Travel close enough to locate one or the other."

"If these _stedding_ are no longer there, we will just have to expand the search further north, nearer to the Blight if absolutely necessary…" Chaime's words trailed-off. At the edge of the group, Medric did not appear to be attending. Instead, the pale-skinned youth seemed to be gazing at something far away, his lips moving soundlessly, as though arguing with himself.

"Medric?" The others glanced at Medric, then took careful, wary steps away from him. Chaime sensed several seizing the source. Medric continued his internal discourse, unaware. Chaime raised his voice. "_Medric!_"

Medric blinked, his eyes resuming focus. "Chaime Sedai?"

"Are you… alright?" They all knew what Chaime meant by that. Yesterday, Rhodil had abruptly begun to laugh and weep at the same time, singing childish nursery-rhymes whilst performing dangerous, difficult-to-control weaves. The Dark One's taint was strong, and perverse in its effects. It was impossible to predict where, how, or _who_ it would strike next. They had taken no chances. Rhodil had been quickly shielded before he could do any harm. Then, he had been killed. Chaime shook his head. Not killed. _Euthanised_. It sounded better. But dead was dead. "Are you _well_, Medric?"

"Yes, Master." Medric became aware that he was being cautiously observed by the others. He coloured, with anger and embarrassment. "I am _fine!_"

Chaime supposed that he was. For now. But for how much longer? How long did any of them have? His apprentices returned their attention to the Master, he who they had followed without question through the terrible years since the sealing of the Bore. They had ruined their prospects and risked their lives in his service. The trust in their eyes made him feel sick and ashamed.

Chaime touched the Locator Key through the thin material of the pouch, running his fingers over its facets. He would hide it in whichever _stedding_ they eventually reached. It didn't matter where. The Pattern would decide.

After feasting on his bitterness and despair, after relating the manner of his death and revealing that the attempt to cleanse _saidin_ was doomed to failure, the Aelfinn had told Chaime how his Son would be needed, that the Key to locate and awaken him would eventually be found in a _stedding_. They had even hinted at the identity of its finder – not for the first time, he wondered who this 'Daughter of the Children, Adept of the White Tower' could be… or rather, _would_ be. Someone wiser than him, hopefully. But how could _children_ have daughters? _What_ white tower? It made no sense… but then, there was little about the Aelfinn that _did_.

"Very well. We had best depart, then… certainly, before Haindar arrives." Chaime's apprentices nodded in fervent agreement. No-one wanted to encounter _him_. "Jojin, would you kindly make us a gateway to _this_ point on the map?"

* * *

Moments after the gateway closed on the last of the male Aes Sedai, a new gateway opened in the same place and a young female Aes Sedai stepped out onto the cracked rock. She lowered the cowl of her fancloth cloak and glanced down at the Gateward, now quiescent – so _that_ was why her weave had failed – and then up at the broken cliff. Beneath, she could still see parts of the dome rising out of the rubble.

"Burn you, Chaime Kufer," she muttered, angrily, "curse you, _Defector_ – what have you _done?_" Retrieving the Gateward – such things should not be left lying around – Kiam Lopiang departed in the same manner that she had arrived.

* * *

Later on that day, as the surviving scouts had warned he would, Haindar arrived. There was little remaining in the vicinity that was worth destroying.

But he destroyed it all anyway.

* * *

And deep beneath the ground, where even the horrific forces wielded by a dieing, rotting madman could not reach, the Stasis Box waited in the dark.

Inside, the last of the Lightborn slept his long sleep. Outside, the Wheel turned, as it always had.


	4. 3: Back to the White Tower

_One of the Madmen came to us __today, though he did not seek sanctuary, as others have. He said that he had travelled far to find a stedding, that all of his followers were dead. He gave us a ter'angreal that he wished hidden. So, we buried it in the Earth beneath the Great Trees. I carved the marker for it myself. This seemed to please him, but then he became agitated. He took poison. Our attempts at healing failed. He died. So, we buried him in the Earth beneath the Great Trees also. A very sad day._

**Toval son of Ath****ar son of Haythil**

* * *

_**C**__**hapter 3 * Back to the White Tower**_

"Would you care for some more tea, Ellyth?"

"No thank-you, Renn."

It was blueberry-flavoured tea, unfortunately. Ellyth had always loathed the taste of blueberries, but had forced herself to drink half a cup of the vile brew because she did not wish to incur unnecessary delay while Renn sent her Warder all the way over to the kitchens for something different. As usual, the cramped study above the Library was extremely dusty, with practically every flat surface supporting a pile of books and parchments, often with some other object balanced precariously atop it. One of which was a teapot.

Renn Faltrey of the Brown Ajah retrieved it, filling her own cup carelessly, so that some tea slopped onto the faded Tairen carpet that already bore numerous similar stains. Some of it also managed to drip onto her purple silk gown (embroidered with yellow snakes, of all things!) which, while less besmirched than the carpet, could certainly have used a wash. Not that it seemed to detract – it never did with Renn, for some reason. She took little care over her appearance, would have laughed at the very idea of doing so, yet somehow always managed a sort of effortless (if slightly eccentric) allure – it was sickening! Even with twice as many stains, the way that ridiculous gown clung to her bosom and hips would have made most men overlook her untidiness. If they even noticed it in the first place, since men were usually untidy enough in themselves to find nothing objectionable about a few tea-stains...

Renn clicked her tongue with irritation, standing and looking for somewhere less precarious to place the teapot. Her pale, almost silver hair was as unruly as Ellyth remembered, cut short around her ears and nape for convenience, yet several spiky locks still managed to hang down over her light brown eyes, which were as vague as ever, though often apt to twinkle with amusement. Her round face was distinctively rather than atypically pretty – snub-nosed and full-lipped, with high cheekbones.

Ellyth also noted that Renn's features were beginning to take on a hint of Aes Sedai agelessness, the slight laughter-lines around her eyes smoothing out, even though she had only been raised to the Shawl a few months before she and Shrina. Perhaps it had something to do with staying in the Tower all of the time. Renn was a native of Tar Valon, so coming here as a novice had not even required a river voyage or crossing one of the bridges, just a brief walk across town. Ellyth wondered if Renn had ever so much as set foot off the Island. Probably not. Eventually, the Brown Sister gave up looking for a clear surface and returned the teapot to the same pile of parchments as before, where it wobbled alarmingly for a moment.

"Dear me, it really is past time that I reorganised things in here… or perhaps it would be better to move to a larger study?" Even if the new study was the size of a ballroom, within a month it would be every bit as cluttered and messy as this one.

Ellyth sighed, and attempted to move a book-burdened footstool, so that she could stretch out her legs a little more. The stool nudged against a large, oval shell lying on the floor, one of numerous odd artefacts cluttering the wood-panelled room. To her surprise, the shell extruded scaly legs and a leathery head on a short neck, which turned upward so that Ellyth could be stared at reproachfully. The odd creature – a bit like a lizard, but with a hard shell like a crab! – raised itself on its legs and began to slowly, determinedly crawl under the chair.

Ellyth gingerly adjusted her posture until she was sitting with her legs safely drawn-up, cross-legged in the old armchair, rearranging her dark blue skirts with one hand and balancing a half-full cup in the other. She would be happier with her ankles out of reach – the thing didn't _look_ as though it would bite (though perhaps 'peck' was more appropriate, since its mouth was somewhat beak-like) but there was no telling what _else_ might be down there. She nervously recalled that Renn had kept a pet _spider_ as a novice! A large, hairy brute from the Aiel Waste, traded from a peddler. It had lived in a box under her bed, from which it would occasionally escape, making its eight-legged way into the rooms of other novices. Renn always claimed that it was harmless, as well as very affectionate and intelligent for a spider, but even so… Noting her discomfiture at the strange shell-creature, ponderously disappearing from sight, Renn waved a dismissive hand.

"Oh, don't mind him, he usually falls asleep in the most awkward places. He even sleeps all through the winter, like a bear. The silk-merchant said he was called a _tor-toise_, she brought him all the way from Shara. So… you were telling me what happened after you returned to Shol Arbela?"

_She couldn't possibly _still_ have that wretched creature lurking in here, could she? How long do spiders _live_, anyway?_

"Mmm? Oh… well, Shrina insisted on returning to the Island in time for the Feast of Lights, so we only stayed long enough to inform Lord Shianri of the raiders. By that time, word had come from the Watchtowers – the Shadowspawn were spotted by scouts and a cavalry force was sent to intercept them before they could reach the Blight. The Trollocs were all hunted-down. None escaped, I am glad to say."

The strange thing was, Kyril Shianri swore that no force of that size could have possibly got past unnoticed – in the dark of the moon, beacons were lit between the Towers and a close watch kept through the night. Ellyth had no reason to doubt the Arafellin's competence when it came to these matters – after more than three thousand years of guarding the Blight, they had become very good at it. It was as though the Shadowspawn were using some _way_ of circumventing the line of Towers, bypassing them in order to raid south.

"And yet, they received their first defeat at _your_ hands," Renn enthused. "Well, you and Shrina… and the Gaidin, of course. It must be _so_ exciting, riding into battle alongside your Warder, fighting against Darkfriends and Shadowspawn…"

Ellyth smiled, nodding agreeably – but inside, she shuddered. On the way back to the south road, they had passed the smouldering ruins of a village that the Trollocs had attacked before encountering them. The villagers had put up a good fight, numerous misshapen corpses feathered with arrows were piled against the defensive palisade, but in the end, it had been to no avail. Expecting the worst, they had gone inside to look for survivors. There were none. From the oldest woman to the youngest child, all had been slaughtered and butchered in a frenzy of bloodlust. It seemed that often, the butchering had begun before the slaughtering was yet complete.

But it would not do to illustrate such harsh realities to Renn. She would probably never leave Tar Valon, unless it was to make the pilgrimage to the Great Library of Cairhein that she was always talking about, in which case, she would probably never return. Unless the Last Battle came in their lifetimes – as Shrina always insisted it would – Renn would hopefully never encounter Shadowspawn, or suffer nightmares as a result of witnessing what they were capable of. Let her enjoy her fantasies of battle and glory.

"There are times when I could do with a little _less_ excitement," Ellyth commented evenly. Without thinking, she took a sip from her cup, and nearly gagged. It was bad enough _hot_, but luke-warm..!

Renn noticed the spluttering noise, her eyes widening with concern. "Oh dear, I completely forgot that you hate blueberries! You really should have _said_ something, it's the only kind I keep in my study! I could have Jabal bring up some Tremalking Black from the kitchens but by the time it gets here it's usually stone-cold and even if you re-heat it with the Power, it still never tastes _quite_ the same…"

Normally, Ellyth would have let Renn continue with speculation about why tea was more bitter and less flavoursome when it had been heated-up again, until she wore herself out. But the message said Renn had discovered something, that she had _information_, and as far as Ellyth was concerned, the social niceties had been well observed by her not impatiently demanding it the moment she arrived in the study! Teatime was definitely _over_.

"Renn!"

Renn snapped her mouth shut at the note of exasperation. She knew that she occasionally – well, perhaps more than occasionally – talked too much, and required interruption. She would have admitted as much there and then, but that would have involved more talking, further interruption. So she waited.

Ellyth took a calming breath. "Renn," she continued, in a more even tone, "I did not come here for the contents of your teapot, but for the contents of your _brain_, yes? Fighting Shadowspawn is all very well, but _most_ Sisters can accomplish that, even Reds. Whereas Aes Sedai with the kind of knowledge that _you_ have are rare indeed. I do not say that it is not nice to visit with an old friend over a cup of revolting blueberry tea. But you said that you had unearthed something, about the _ter'angreal_?"

To illustrate her point, Ellyth took the heavy Crystal out of her belt pouch and held it up, the dim light in the study refracting oddly in its depths. Renn blinked, then put her teacup on the floor, pushing it out of the way under her chair, where there already seemed to be numerous other cups lurking.

"Yes, of course… now where did I..?" Renn rose, bustling about the study. In short order, the chaos of before seemed perfectly orderly compared with the haphazard mess that Renn's brief yet violent search brought about. "Perhaps if you returned tomorrow? I could _definitely_ have found it by then..."

Ellyth sighed. She did not even know what 'it' _was_, and was starting to seriously wonder if Renn did either…

"It is fine, Renn. I shall wait. Just keep searching, do not let me distract you."

Renn paused long enough to cast an affectionate glance at Ellyth.

"You Blues – you are always so single-minded!"

Chuckling, Renn returned to her search.

* * *

"There She is."

The shining walls of Tar Valon gleamed in the distance, the immensity of the White Tower rising from the centre of the Island. It dominated the city, but still lay in the shadow of Dragonmount. As did everything else.

Ellyth heeled Eradore forward, hooves clopping on the ancient roadway, Shrina following on A'vron, falling in beside her. The bridge-town of Luagde lay somewhere below, on the eastern bank of the Erinin. Atual had gone ahead to ensure that there were no Children of the Light loitering in the vicinity, while the Twins were somewhere behind them, in case they were being followed. Though they were unlikely to be in danger this close to Tar Valon.

"Home sweet home." Shrina invariably added this observation to Ellyth's, after catching their first glimpse of Tar Valon when they infrequently returned, always remarked in that same, mockingly wistful tone of voice. She grinned at Ellyth. "Well, we managed to stay away for almost a year, this time. What do you suppose our penances will be?"

Ellyth shrugged. "Something suitably petty and spiteful," she murmured.

They habitually received minor penances from their respective Ajahs for leaving the Tower without permission – since discovering that permission for their various journeys would be rarely forthcoming, they had long since ceased applying. Besides, the penalties were really just a formality – the Hall knew the value of having Sisters constantly travelling the roads and rivers that linked the scattered nations. Even when they were not given permission to do so. In the Tower's long history, more than one disaster had been averted by an Aes Sedai being on hand at a vital moment by sheer chance. Or by the Will of the Pattern. At least none of the Sitters had ever contemplated sending them to a farm for years on end, as occasionally happened. The penances were always mild. Yet annoying.

"Who cares!" shouted Shrina, "they can make me scrub dishes like stupid old Bonwhin for a whole _month_, I am still going to enjoy myself tonight!"

Shrina was in a good mood. They would be back in time for the Feast of Lights! They had met Bera Harkin and Kiruna Nachiman at a branch in the road a few days before, the formidable pair on their way to Chachin in a hurry, though of course they didn't say why. The two imposing Greens were surrounded by their seven attendant Warders, like a pair of proud Queen Bees with soldier-drones buzzing about them. Whilst the ten Gaidin sat their horses, clasping hands and exchanging quick stories of recent exploits, Kiruna lead Ellyth and Shrina to the side of the road, Bera following close behind, like a farmwife shooing chickens. In addition to searching stares and disapproving sniffs, the two young Aes Sedai had then received something that they had been without for a long time – _news_.

There were Whitecloaks stirring-up trouble in the bridge-towns (glares directed at Ellyth, as though she were personally responsible for the troop dispositions of the Children!) The False Dragon from Ghealdan had been caught and brought to the Tower in chains, to be gentled. The Daughter-Heir of Andor had arrived with him, she was very strong in the Power and likely to choose Green (triumphant glances at Ellyth, as though she was supposed to care if some spoiled Princess spurned her Ajah!) The Amyrlin had gone to Fal Dara of all places, with her Keeper and several prominent Sisters in attendance, and no, they did not know why either. No-one did. Oh, and a strange Andoran girl had come to the Tower last month, supposedly sent by Moiraine (further searching stares at the other Blue Ajah Sister present, as though Ellyth would know why) and there were rumours of her having some kind of a Talent… her name had not been entered in the novice book, though.

Most significantly (to Shrina, at least) Kiruna had provided them with the _date_. She and Bera had left Tar Valon on nineteenth-Danu, four days previously – giving them five whole days to make the same journey in the other direction! Or in other words, it looked as though they had _not_ missed the Feast of Lights. Shrina always liked to be back in time for that, so that she could drink far too much punch and dance her Warders and any other man she could grab into a state of exhaustion. Ellyth did not think they would be able to return before the Feast began, Shrina had disagreed. And made them all ride an extra ten miles each day, so that they rarely stopped to camp until nightfall. Now, Ellyth owed her a silver Tar Valon mark. This made her consider money…

"Perhaps they will cut our stipend again." The Tower bank drafts that were made available to Aes Sedai could be taken away as easily as given, and often were. It didn't matter, a quick visit to Mistress Dormaile and they would be in funds again. Ellyth's Andoran Estate yielded a modest yet steady income from a small salt-mine, of all things, enough to meet her purposes and needs. But she had not even known that salt _needed _to be mined! She thought it all came from the sea... Ellyth was curious about her salt-mine, the estate and manorhouse her mother had grown-up in. She really should go there one day...

They were closer now, and lower, the road winding down toward the great river. The White Tower seemed to grow in height as they approached. Ellyth always had mixed feelings about returning to Tar Valon, which she suspected were not solely to do with her upbringing. On the one hand, it was the key bastion of civilisation, a bulwark against the Shadow for more than three thousand years, instrumental in preserving humanity from the Dark One. On the other, it was the centre of a vast spider's web, tendrils stretching out to every far corner of the land, influencing and manipulating.

Whether this made the Amyrlin Seat the spider in her analogy, Ellyth was not sure. But Siuan Sanche certainly always made her feel like a fly, about to be swatted! It had been a decade since she first came to the heart of the web, and while her feelings toward Aes Sedai had mellowed somewhat, particularly in the years since becoming one herself, Ellyth's wariness concerning the Tower had never wavered from the day she arrived.

_It was cold, up on deck, but neither of them had wanted to miss their first sight of Tar Valon.__ Though neither wished to admit that what their eyes were really searching for was the heart of the city, the White Tower. Their destination._

_An old __cargomaster, idly coiling a rope nearby for something to do rather than because he was required to, glanced at the two girls in the bow, the passengers who had embarked at Tear, though they were neither of them Tairens. One was a pale, slender southerner, the other a tall red-head from the west, by the sound of her speech. The two were wrapped in their cloaks against the cold drizzle, their cowls up, staring ahead of them with a strange mixture of excitement and trepidation. _

_The cargomaster shook his head, hiding a smile. He had made the run up to Southharbour on more occasions than he could remember. Burn his Soul, but he _wished_ he had a gold Andoran crown for every time he had seen that exact fervent expression on the face of a young female passenger, bound for the same place as these two!_

_The rivership rounded a bend in the river. And there it lay... Tar Valon. The City of the Witches! It seemed impossible that anywhere could be so beautiful. For a long moment, they stared. When Ellyth finally broke the silence, for some reason she referred to the city as 'she', rather like an Atha'an Miere calling a ship 'he'._

"_Well... there She is."_

"_Home sweet home!"_

* * *

The small study looked as though it had been turned upside down and shaken. Renn seemed close to tears of frustration. She stood in the middle of the room, looking slightly lost, open books and parchments scattered everywhere.

"Bloody ashes!" Renn wailed, "I found it only last week and I _knew_ you would want to see it as soon as you got back from Dorlan… if only I had…" Her searching eyes came to rest on a small blackboard resting on an easel, pushed into one corner. Amidst a plethora of illegible white chalk scratches that looked like dates and astronomical observations, a large message had been scrawled in a different, flowing hand. It read: '_Cannot find it? Ask me! – J.'_ Renn's confused expression cleared. "Of course! Jabal! _He_ might know!"

Renn rushed to the door of the study, flinging it open, dislodging further piles of parchments on her way, sending clouds of dust flying. Ellyth sneezed, rose from her chair cautiously and followed Renn out into the hall, tucking the Crystal back into her belt pouch and treading carefully, in case any of the other strange objects cluttering the floor turned out to be alive.

Renn's Warder was reading, lounging in a window-seat at the end of the short hallway, fiddling absently with his thick gold ear-ring. He glanced up from the book as they approached. It was the same thin volume he had been skimming through when Ellyth arrived, _My Adventures with the Sea Folk_ by Guisep Mathenos, an Illianer merchant of doubtful repute. Jabal din Sudim Lionfish seemed to be finding it an amusing read, but then, he was Atha'an Miere himself – the book was no-doubt full of humorous inconsistencies. Renn stomped up to him, trailing dusty cobwebs.

"Jabal, have you seen..?" She paused. "Why are you smirking like that?"

"It is some of the things in this ridiculous book you lent to me, Renn Sedai," the dark-skinned Warder responded, white teeth flashing. "The writer seems much taken with the…" he glanced down at the page he was on, then closed the book firmly, "…dusky beauty of Sea Folk maidens… he says that our alluring womenfolk are noted for their compliance and obedience to a man's whims, that they make the perfect companions in life and love…" He grinned. "Clearly, the fool never encountered my mother. She would have dropped him over the side with his pockets full of ballast-stones. How may I serve you?" He rose in one smooth movement, exuding dangerous grace, tossing the book carelessly onto the chair he had vacated.

"Do you know where I put that Ogier relic, the one I was telling you about? I can't find the bloody thing anywhere!"

Jabal reached into his open shirt and drew out a long, leather wallet. "It is here. Do not be concerned, I have kept it safe for you."

Renn snatched the wallet from his hand, eagerly. "So it is!" Suspiciously, she added, "but what are _you_ doing with it?"

"You _gave_ it to me, Renn Sedai. You instructed me to hold it, you said it was important and if I did not look after it, you might forget where you put it, or lose it?" There was a note of patience in Jabal's voice, clearly this was an oft-repeated incidence.

"Oh yes… of course… I remember now!" Renn frowned. "It would have helped if you had told me that _before_ – I've just upset everything in there, it looks like someone channelled a whirlwind through a paper-factors!"

"Apologies."

"Yes, well… Ellyth?"

"Mmm?" Ellyth's mind had been wandering, her gaze drifting – she tore her eyes from the somewhat approving attention they had been giving to Jabal's smoothly muscled chest, well-displayed by the open silk shirt tucked into his colourful sash… _Dusky beauty indeed! Nonsense!_ She moved to stand beside Renn, examining the wallet. It was made of calfskin, somewhat cracked. She attempted to hide her disappointment. A little bit, at least. "Is _this_ it? It appears to be… an ordinary leather wallet..?"

"No, that's just what you have to _keep_ it in, it's very old and fragile." Renn flipped open the wallet. Resting inside was something that seemed to be a piece of thin, supple tree-bark, darkened near black with age. A white trefoil leaf had been carved at the top in intricate detail. Beneath were inscribed several lines of curling script, like so many intricately twisted vines, though clearly it was writing of some kind. And beneath _that_… a final, delicately-rendered etching, a multi-faceted crystal.

It was undoubtedly the _ter'angreal_ from the _stedding!_

* * *

All in all, it had not been much of a sixteenth Nameday, so far. Ellyth sat on the narrow, hard-mattressed bed in the small, cramped room, feeling somewhat lost. She wore a plain, white dress – it was her understanding that such dresses were all she would be permitted to wear until she was promoted to higher rank, and then it would be essentially the _same_ dress with only the addition of some bands of colour at the hem. It was easily the plainest thing she had ever worn – she felt like somebody's maidservant! She wondered if the Witches promoted faster learning of their dark arts by denying young women decent apparel. Perhaps.

The door swung open without being knocked-upon first and Shrina stalked in, wearing an identical dress. She did not look good in white, but then, it was not Ellyth's favourite colour either. Which was odd, when you considered her provenance. Shrina looked discontented.

"How are your quarters?" Ellyth asked. She was glad that the girl from Falme had been given the room next to hers, that there was at least _one_ familiar face in the Tower.

Shrina glanced around dismissively. "As poky as this. I've seen bigger cabins on fishing boats." Shrina sat next to Ellyth on the bed. She sighed, gustily. Their arrival at the White Tower had been anticlimactic. After presenting their credentials and signing the Novice Book, they had received a bossy lecture from a tall, thin girl in one of the banded dresses, mostly about the Rules – the Witches seemed to have a great deal of them. Then, they had been shown to their rooms and left to their own devices. Ellyth did her best to put a better complexion on things.

"The rooms, they are a little bare and simple, perhaps, but…"

"To the Pit with bare and simple! I have had my fill with both bare _and_ simple for much of my life – my understanding was that the White Tower was _luxurious!_"

"Perhaps the parts that the Wit- that the Aes Sedai inhabit, are nicer…"

"Nicer than _these_ dockside tavern garrets where drunken sailors are left to sleep it off, one would hope!" Shrina scowled darkly. "We wrote our name in the Big Book that the crabby woman in the grey shawl pushed under our noses. Since we are now apprentice Wit- oh excuse me, _Aes Sedai_ ourselves, it would be appropriate to be given bedchambers that were a little _less_ salubrious." Shrina crossed her arms decisively.

"You mean _more_ salubrious, yes?"

"I know what I mean!"

"No really, Shrina, 'salubrious' is a _good_ thing, it refers to-"

"Bah! Why am I attempting to explain this to a soft noblewoman like you? You grew up in a manor house. No-doubt you were waited-on hand and foot. Fed peeled grapes dusted with sherbert by handsome young men in smart livery." Shrina nodded firmly, as if that settled _that_.

In point of fact, Lord Guye had strongly discouraged any of his children from being "soft". In his book, softness seemed to include a desire for more coal on the fire on freezing winter nights, a wish for something more interesting than healthy, thin gruel for breakfast, a dislike of robust outdoor exercise regardless of whether it was raining, and a great many other things besides. _Soft! _Of course, when she came of age, Ellyth had received the clothing and jewellery appropriate to her station, but she suspected that this was more with a view to securing an advantageous match with another House. Not that _that_ was very likely to happen now.

"Is it so important to you, then? Luxury?" Ellyth was genuinely curious.

"Of course! What an absurd question. Ellyth, you worry me sometimes. Luxury? Why, I am solely motivated by the pursuit of it! Oh, by the way, _here_."

Ellyth accepted the small box, with a piece of tatty gold ribbon attached. Inside lay a silver bracelet of Shrina's that she had once admired. It was beautifully engraved with waves, interspersed with watching eyes.

"Nameday felicitations, Ellyth. Now we are _both_ sixteen, and I shan't have to worry about speaking of _men_ in front of you! Sorry it isn't studded with diamonds, as you are no-doubt accustomed to!"

For some reason, Ellyth felt on the verge of tears. It was only a simple bracelet, but it was the _gesture_ that mattered. She threw her arms around Shrina and they hugged warmly.

"Thank-you, Shrinalla! But how did you know it was my Nameday? I never mentioned it. I did not feel like celebrating…"

"I saw your birth-date when you signed the Novice Book, of course."

Hugging concluded, Ellyth leant back and gave Shrina an appraising look. On their long voyage together, she had often noticed that the girl from Falme could be surprisingly perceptive at times – Shrina had a definite eye for details that many might miss. The thief in Tear who had tried to make-off with their luggage, for example. He had looked like any of the other licensed porters on the dock – except that Shrina had noticed that the Honourable Guild of Transporters plaque he wore on a string around his neck was a clever forgery! The man had reacted angrily to the accusation and pulled a knife. For a moment it looked as though Ellyth's first experience of Tear, almost as antithetical to Aes Sedai as Amadicia, would involve _another_ immolation of a dagger-brandishing assassin! She could feel the fiery weaves forming, the same as before. Horribly, there was a part of her that _wanted_ to do it…

Fortunately, a young thief-taker had come along at just the right moment and rapped the criminal sharply on the head with the thin, ridged stick he carried. The dark-faced man had whistled a _real_ porter over, smiled charmingly at them, then dragged the unconscious thief off toward the Stone, his trailing legs leaving double lines in the thick mud of the Maule. Really, the thief-taker (no, it was _catcher _in Tear, for some reason) had been most helpful, Ellyth rather wished she had given him more than a silver penny for his trouble. Shrina simply wished that she had found out what his _name_ was…

The door had been left ajar – there was a tap and it was pushed open enough to reveal a small, round-faced girl with pale spikes of hair hanging down over her brow, which she swept aside before nodding to them. Her eyes seemed to be scanning the room carefully while she hovered in the doorway. She also wore the white dress, so must be another… novice. It would take some getting used to, thinking of herself as such.

"Excuse me, I'm from across the hall," the girl stated.

When no more information was forthcoming, Ellyth and Shrina glanced at each other in bemusement.

Shrina scowled. "I assume that you are you here to welcome new arrivals?"

The small girl blinked. "Well, not really… I could if you want me to, I suppose, but I've only been here a month myself, so perhaps someone else would be more… um…" The girl was leaning down surreptitiously, as though trying to look under the bed, while pretending not to! "...appropriate." Ellyth wondered uneasily if the One Power had driven her mad? "If you would like a tour, I will show you where everything is presently," the girl added, distractedly. "There is a fine library..."

"Thank-you. I am Ellythia and this is Shrinalla. What is your name?"

"Renn. Faltrey. Sorry to intrude… um… don't panic or anything, but I just wondered if either of you had perhaps seen my… oh, there she is!"

After the girl – Renn – had departed with the large, hairy creature with too many legs that had been hiding under her bed, Ellyth carefully stepped back down from the stool. She glanced at Shrina, who was still crouching on top of her desk like a scared frog. She certainly could move fast when she needed to!

"Light," moaned Shrina, "I didn't know spiders _got_ that big…"

"Well, it has gone now," Ellyth pointed-out, philosophically.

Renn reappeared. "Sorry about that," she said breezily, "I've left a heavy book on top of the box, to prevent further escapes. Why are you up on the desk, Ellythia?"

Shrina glared at Renn. "_I'm_ not Ellyth, _she_ is." Shrina resumed the floor and her dignity, as best she could. Her loud, girlish shrieks still seemed to echo in the small room, however. "_I_ am _Shrina_. And I'm not on the desk. Why would you say I was when I'm not?"

Renn blinked, then turned to Ellyth, smiling brightly. "Are you hungry?"

"I suppose that I _was_," Ellyth answered carefully, "but I seem to have quite lost my appetite. For some reason." Shrina sniffed. Renn shrugged.

"Well, we will save the Refectory for last, then. Come along, let me show you the White Tower. Starting with the Library…"

The tour would not only have started with the Library, but would have continued there well into the night as well, had Renn had her way. Ellyth put her foot down, however, and though it took a while to drag Shrina away from the Warder's practice yard, by the time it was turning to dusk outside, they had managed to see most of the Tower. The parts where novices were permitted to go, at least, as well as one or two places of interest where, strictly speaking, they were not.

And then, there was the Refectory… There were about twenty girls in white dresses present for dinner, gulping down a quick meal in between chores. Ellyth was conscious of being stared at as she followed Renn and Shrina toward the counter. A knot of girls stood there, watching them approach. At their centre stood an obvious Taraboner, which raised Ellyth's hackles a little, a scowling girl with a multitude of honey-coloured braids and a pouting, discontented mouth. At least novice dress regulations seemed to forbid her from wearing one of those silly veils! The Taraboner girl stepped forward, blocking their way. She spared a momentary rude stare for Ellyth and Shrina, then poked a finger into Renn's chest.

"If the spider, it comes into my room again, then I will squish it with the shoe! Nod the one time if you understand, bookworm!"

Renn sighed, and turned to the others. "This is Liandrin. No boy has ever kissed her and survived. Oh, and she enjoys drowning kittens!" Liandrin snarled angrily at Renn, who regarded her with pugnacious amusement, her hands bunched into fists. Renn was smaller, but there was something rather formidable about her, even so. Liandrin sneered and turned her attention to Shrina and Ellyth.

"So, the two Wilders… which is the Amadici?"

Ellyth sighed. A lot of blood had been spilled along the border between Amadicia and Tarabon over the years. Was more to be spilled in the White Tower?

Shrina put her hands on her hips and looked at the Taraboner girl and her friends as though she intended using them for fish bait. "What of it?" she enquired.

Liandrin turned to Ellyth. "That is not the Amador accent, so it must be _you_."

Ellyth smiled graciously. "If it must, then it must. But since you have dragged us onto the topic of _accents_, allow me to observe that your _own_ seems a little strange."

Liandrin coloured, scowling. "It is not for the newly-arrived Wilder to _observe_ anything!" she snapped, "so be quiet then, you dirty Whitecloak, you!"

"Yes, there it is again – one moment you sound _almost_ like a minor Noble of Tanchico, but the next, your accent seems more like that of the _docks_…" Ellyth continued to smile.

The girls behind Liandrin glared. Renn grinned. Shrina sniggered.

Liandrin's reaction was quite unexpected. Ellyth had definitely struck a nerve! "Filthy Amadici whore's daughter" was the rudest thing she had ever been called. Ellyth should not have taken it so personally, she had only dim memories of her mother who had died when she was an infant, but somehow this made it worse.

The loud slap of Ellyth's open palm connecting with Liandrin's face turned every eye in the Refectory in their direction – unfortunately, all of the novices had then heard Ellyth's verbal response. Indeed, everyone on the entire floor, including several Aes Sedai, heard the resounding words "vile Tar Valon witch's whelp!" echoing through the hallways. Needless to say, this did not do much for Ellyth's popularity. Though Renn was not remotely offended, and Shrina seemed to find the whole incident vastly amusing. At least they seemed to have found another friend.

Thus, Ellyth found herself becoming acquainted with the strap in the Mistress of Novice's study on her very _first_ night in the Tower, a record rarely equalled by even the most unruly of novices.

* * *

"What do you _mean_ you can't _read_ it?"

"Sshh!" One of the Sea Folk sisters was glaring at her again, she thought it might be Aiden Sedai… the small, round one, anyway. With a final dark look, the Atha'an Miere woman in the brown-fringed shawl disappeared back behind the oaken library stacks as silently as she had appeared.

Ellyth winced. The cavernous ceiling of the Library had the kind of acoustics that seemed to magnify anything above a whisper. And that had been her second warning. It might not have been Tower Law, but custom (as strong, if not stronger) going back to well before the Trolloc Wars dictated that anyone who had to be 'shushed' as many as three times in a row was required to leave the Library and not return for a full day. Which might be just as well, under the circumstances.

Ellyth lowered her voice to an angry hiss. "What does _this_ mean?" She stabbed an accusing finger at a section of the intricate script inscribed into the piece of ancient bark, which lay on the table in front of them.

Renn shrugged. "_I_ don't know!"

"You don't… know?" _Then what am I doing here? _"Oh, bloody ashes!"

Renn adopted a maddeningly patient tone. "Ellyth, these are three-and-a-half thousand year old Ogier Runes," she lectured, "it is almost impossible for humans to decipher the script they use _now_, let alone that of the Age of Legends, which is incredibly complex, intricate and secretive! Why, I doubt there are more than a handful of Ogier Elders alive today who could decipher this!"

"Then what is the burning point of _showing_ it to me?" Ellyth hissed. Really, her language was becoming as bad as that of a Taraboner fishwife, it was associating with Shrina that was to blame, doubtless. But Renn could make even the most emotionless, self-controlled White tear out her hair and start swearing like a mule-handler, just by being Renn! Come to think of it, on one occasion, she almost _had_.

"Because I think there's a burning _translation!_" Renn shouted.

"Sshh!"

_After displaying her prize, Renn had suggested they "go downstairs." Ellyth knew that this meant the Library. Where Renn could quite easily disappear for days, becoming side-tracked by dozens of different scraps of arcane knowledge._

"_There is a particular ledger we should look at," she explained._

"_Couldn't you have brought it up here?" Ellyth did not want Renn to go into the Library – she had been shown a piece of bark with a picture of the ter'angreal on it, and that was probably as good as it was going to get._

"_No, of course not! You'll see why…"_

_Ellyth had no choice but to follow after Renn as she briskly set off down the hallway, running a little to catch up. Jabal retrieved his short, ivory-hilted blade from where it leant against the wall, heeling after them like a particularly deadly hound as he tucked it carefully into his sash._

_Descending one of the steep, spiralling flights of stairs that lead to the rear of the Library, Renn tripped on the hem of her impractical gown and might have tumbled the rest of the way down – if Jabal's hand had not shot out with the speed of a striking blacklance. Steely fingers closed around Renn's arm and, with a swift tug, he drew her back to safety. Renn rubbed her arm, smiling up at Jabal, then touched her fingers to her lips and pressed them briefly to his. Her Warder's return smile was dazzling._

_Ellyth released the Source and let the flows of Air she had been about to twine around Renn dissipate. _He does have _very _white teeth…_She wondered if the rumours were true – that Renn took _baths_ with her Gaidin, baths and more besides! Of course, some of the Shienaran Sisters insisted that their Warders bathe with them also. In fact, they insisted even if their Warders were not, themselves, _from_ Shienar! But that was usually more with a view to having their backs scrubbed. And with not a drop of honeyed-wine in sight…_

_Ellyth momentarily imagined herself in the same bath as Atual, asking him to pass her the soap… her cheeks flushed and she had to stifle a giggle. _

_Renn heard the sound and glanced back. "What are you snorting about?"_

"_Men snort. Women sniff. And _do_ watch where you are going, Renn."_

"_I am!"_

"_Of course you are. Do you recall the time when you were out in the gardens and you managed to step straight into an ornamental fishpond?"_

"_I didn't see it – I was reading something!"_

Now, here they were down in the Library, which seemed to be a haunt of the Tower's few Sea Folk Sisters, who certainly did not seem to approve of Renn's presence any more than hers. Renn glanced at something behind Ellyth.

"Ah, here he comes now."

Ellyth looked over her shoulder and stared. An enormous book appeared to be walking slowly toward her, advancing between the library stacks, a massive, thick tome bound in ancient, rotting leather. Two muscular arms, the hands tattooed, were wrapped around the front of it, a pair of powerful legs stepping carefully beneath, clad in britches of oiled-cloth, feet bare. The book approached them at a steady pace.

"Over here, Jabal! Keep walking... straight-ahead… that's it." Renn's instructions were loud, occasioning another of the Atha'an Miere Sisters to appear, Nyein Sedai this time, graceful and ageless, her dark hair streaked with silver an indication of the many years she had seen. Her disapproving frown changed to a fond smile as she recognised the tattoos, the well-turned calves bulging beneath the weight of the book. "Alright, you're half a span from the table, just lean forward and place it carefully-"

With a loud slam, the massive ledger crashed down onto the solid oak table, which groaned beneath its weight. Jabal straightened-up, rubbing his back a little, dark face slightly flushed. Even the strongest of Warders would have been hard-put to carry _that_ up from the basement. He regarded the grimy stains down the front of his silk shirt, and sighed.

Nyein din Sudim White Flame swayed over to join them, the medallions on the thin chain linking her nose ring to one of her ear-rings bobbing as she moved. She glanced at the thick tome disinterestedly. "One of the Alantin Ledgers," she muttered, then embraced the Source and channelled a thin, intricate flow of Air and Water. Ellyth watched carefully. There seemed to be some Earth in there too… The grime slid from Jabal's shirt, turning to dust which he was able to brush off. He smiled his appreciation.

"Thank-you, aunty-Ny." The Sister ruffled his dark hair affectionately.

"Such burdens should be left to an Ogier, nephew." With a final disapproving stare at Renn and Ellyth, she turned and swayed back to whatever she had been doing. Jabal smiled after her a moment.

Renn sniffed. "Perhaps 'aunty' might also wish to wipe your nose for you?"

Her Warder grinned. "Oh no – that is _your_ job, Aes Sedai!"

Jabal had originally travelled to the White Tower Library to visit his Aunt, long exiled from the salt and in need of cheering-up. He had ended-up staying because he loved books so much. That was the short, official version. The truth was a little more complex. Nyein (actually his _grandmother's_ Aunt) had summoned him for a darker purpose, that had nothing to do with familial duty. Not that both Family and Clan weren't extremely important to the Atha'an Miere, even when divided by time and distance. But the Sea Folk were not much given to sentiment, and Jabal had really come to Tar Valon to kill a man.

His Aunt had become aware of the presence in the City of Raab, a notorious Clan Takana outcast who had absconded with several navigation charts which he was planning to sell to a Merchant-Banking House based in Tar Valon. Negotiations had stalled for the time being, but if the House gained these charts, they could send their ships to Shara via the dangerous blue water routes the Sea Folk used, rather than taking twice as long by carefully hugging the coast. The other Clans would be displeased, and Clan Takana would be dishonoured for many generations.

Nyein Sedai had sworn upon the Oath Rod and could not personally harm the traitor Raab, much as she wanted to, since he was not Shadowspawn. Though she and the rest of the Takana considered him somewhat _worse_, for betraying his Clan. She could, however, send a messenger pigeon to the Clan Agent in Tear.

A fortnight later, a young Clan Takana Swordmaster-in-training stepped off a riverboat in Southharbour. He was just in time to go straight to the Banking House and interrupt a meeting between the outcast and the Board. At which point, things became ugly. Unfortunately, while Raab escaped through a window – though without the stolen charts which Jabal consigned to the flames in the room's large fireplace – the young Atha'an Miere swordsman had been forced to kill a couple of the House's guards in self-defence.

The Banking House was influential in Tar Valon and demanded his execution from the Amyrlin herself. She had refused – provided that Jabal, who now owed the Tower his life, should make that life available to the Tower. His Clan's Swordmaster considered him one of his less-inept students, which from scarred old Caroc, was praise indeed. So the Warder training had not come too hard. He missed the salt, of course, as much as the Atha'an Miere Sisters had when they first came to the Tower, but he did at least love books, that much was true. And it was in the Tower Library that he met the young Aes Sedai who was to Bond him. But only _after _they had secretly married.

With difficulty, Renn pushed open the front cover of the massive ledger, producing a loud cracking sound as the stiff leather protested. The book would have seemed large even to an Ogier, but columns of surprisingly small, neat letters seemed to thickly cover each massive page, frequently interspersed with what looked like dates. All in the Old Tongue. But the paper was yellow and cracked, much of the writing faded, almost illegible.

"It is part of an ongoing account of life in the _stedding_ – one of the few surviving volumes," Renn muttered distractedly. "Fortunately, this dates from _after_ the Ogier began to use the Old Tongue for the purposes of historical record, and includes earlier translations, so hopefully there will be something about the _ter'angreal..._"

"What is it doing in the Tower Library?"

"These ledgers, as well as earlier artefacts like the bark runes, all come from the same abandoned _stedding_ you took refuge in. It was over-run in the final days of the Trolloc Wars, the population killed or scattered. The records were given into the care of the Tower, and no Ogier ever claimed them…"

Renn hiked up her gown and scrambled onto the table, kneeling over the book. She was still wearing those garish, striped stockings she favoured, Ellyth noted. Renn turned several of the huge pages, then several more, squinting down at the cramped writing, her lips moving as she attempted to decipher the language of three millennia ago. "It's all written so _formally…_ I wish Serafelle was here! She knows more about antique forms than anyone alive…"

Ellyth vaguely recalled the old Brown Sister who had despaired of ever teaching her the Old Tongue… "Odd. It is not like Serafelle to leave the Tower."

"I know! I don't think she has left Tar Valon in a _century_. But the Amyrlin took her north, her _and_ Verin!"

"Strange. Anaiya went too, and Alanna…"

"_And_ that sneaking snitch Liandrin!"

"The Amyrlin Seat took prominent Sisters from all of the Ajahs. But why would they go to Shienar?"

"No-one knows, but that doesn't stop all sorts of theorising." Renn grinned. "And when I say theorising, I do of course mean idle rumour-mongering and mean-spirited gossip!"

Ellyth sighed. "You know, Renn, whenever I return to the White Tower after a long journey, it always feels good to be back home. For about a day. After which time, I cannot wait to get out of this nest of vipers again!"

Renn shrugged. "I manage here well enough."

"Then you must be immune to snake-bites."

"One way of developing an immunity is to let the snakes keep biting until the effect of their poison diminishes. Avoiding serpents gives their venom more sting."

"Point taken. But I seek out lost _ter'angreal_. Since all of the _ter'angreal_ in the Tower fall under the definition of 'found', I can scarcely do so here." Ellyth nodded, decisively.

"Your skills as a logician confound me. Are you _sure_ you shouldn't have chosen White?"

Ellyth laughed, in spite of herself. Renn joined-in. Ellyth climbed up onto the table too, sitting cross-legged beside the huge Ogier book. "It is good to see you again, my friend. You are the only reason I ever regret having to leave this place."

Soon, Renn was engrossed in the ledger once more. She continued turning pages until she was halfway through the massive tome. Then, she stopped.

"I think this might be it…"

Ellyth leaned forward eagerly. The writing was illegible to her, she could barely understand one word in a hundred… Renn was concentrating on a particular block of text, running her finger along the lines, lips moving soundlessly. Ellyth thought she could make out Old Tongue terms for 'tree' and 'stone' but that was about it. Her patience gave-out.

"_Well?_ What does it say?"

"The entry dates from about three hundred years after the White Tower was founded. Seems to be an original account transposed verbatim, followed by speculation and sentiment."

"_Please_, Renn! In a language I _understand?_"

"Oh, well the writer, a Historian whose name appears to be 'Lath daughter of Soola daughter of Hahan,' transcribes an acount from… let me see… roughly six or seven centuries previously, around the early years of the Breaking – undoubtedly the _same_ entry recorded in the Runes. It was her grandfather Toval, who described the original incident, in which a 'madman' (presumably a male channeller) prevails upon the Ogier of the lost _stedding_ to hide a _ter'angreal_ for him. They burn it… no, not burn… they _bury_ it, in the Grove. Oh. Then the madman commits suicide. So they bury him too. The End."

"Is that everything?"

"Not quite. The Ogier Historian goes on to speculate that the crystalline _ter'angreal_ may be something called a… no, I have no _idea_ what that word is… something to do with locating and unlocking, perhaps? Only combined… She ends by stating that she has often felt sympathy for this unknown Aes Sedai who her grandfather met. Once a year she would make a point of putting flowers on the market stone… no, the _marker_ stone. Whatever that is..."

Ellyth flushed, remembering the skull beneath the carved boulder. "I think that was his grave," she murmured.

Renn looked up. "That's all there is, I am afraid."

"Thank-you, my friend. You have revealed much."

But there was still much more that was hidden. Ellyth took the Crystal out of her pouch and looked at it. What was it? She embraced the Source and channelled Spirit into it. The crimson light appeared on the edge, flashing. She turned it in her hands. The light moved, flickering from facet to facet, so that it was always in the same place, no matter which way she turned the Crystal.

"It looks like a compass."

Ellyth jumped – she had forgotten Jabal was there! The Sea Folk Warder was leaning against one of the stacks, arms crossed, his eyes half-closed. He seemed bored, but she expected that were Shadowspawn to suddenly descend upon the Library, as unlikely as this might seem, the short blade would be out of his sash in a heart-beat.

In point of fact, Jabal had been preoccupied, proudly admiring his wife's upturned bottom as Renn crouched over the ledger – he had glanced at the _ter'angreal _and spoken without thinking.

"What is a compass?" Ellyth enquired of him.

Jabal sighed. "Something the Atha'an Miere use for navigation, Ellyth Sedai." He lowered his voice a little. "Please do not mention to my Aunt or the other Librarians that I told you this – it is supposed to be a secret!"

Ellyth glanced at Renn. She was kneeling back on her slippered heels and nodding thoughtfully. "He has a point, you know – it _does_ look like a compass. May I?" Ellyth passed the _ter'angreal_ over, a little reluctant to let it out of her hands. She released the Source with equal reluctance as Renn embraced it, channelling Spirit. The crimson light had disappeared as soon as she stopped channelling, now it reappeared and began to pulse again. "The facets around the edge number sixteen, the usual amount of headings or bearings or whatever it is you call them at sea." Jabal nodded, but his eyes scanned the recesses of the library, keeping a wary eye out for his Aunt or the other Atha'an Meire Sisters. "Oh, relax – _everyone_ knows the Sea Folk have compasses, just like they know you use a spoked wheel and pulley system to move your rudders – but as long as they don't know how to _make_ them, what do you care?"

Jabal winced. You could get hung up by your heels in the rigging for even _admitting_ such things existed! Besides, it was the Amayar who made the compasses, he did not know how it was done.

Renn turned the _ter'angreal_ slowly in her hands, the point of light shifting around the edge. "See, it always indicates the _same_ direction, like a compass needle."

"Not north, though," Jabal added.

_Needle? For sewing?_ Ellyth was still uncertain about this compass.

"The main transept of the Library is aligned exactly due North, it says so in the plans… so, if I face _this_ way… Ellyth, you first tested this near to the _stedding_ where you found it, up in Arafel, near to the Border?" Ellyth nodded. "Do you remember if the light indicated a particular direction?"

"The light? Well, it shifted when I turned the Crystal in my hands, much as it does now, so that it was always near to my right hand – oh except when I turned around, when I was facing toward the Blight… then it was to my left…"

"Of course!"

"Of course?"

"Left of the Blight as you face it means west. Now, the indicated direction from Tar Valon is roughly north-west of here…"

Jabal came over, squinting at the Crystal. "I would say more west-north-west, Renn Sedai. Toward Saldaea and the Dead Sea, certainly if the bearing from Arafel was westerly."

"Handsome _and_ clever – you shall have a treat, my helpful Gaidin!" Jabal grinned. "If we could _only_ take it to somewhere equally far from Tar Valon or Arafel – Bandar Eban, for example – why, then we could _triangulate_!"

"I have absolutely no idea what you are talking about," Ellyth muttered.

"Only because you barely made it through arithmetic, let alone trigonometry!" Renn's response was rather tart, Ellyth felt. She grimaced. She had _loathed_ Valinde Sedai's mathematics classes, the stern White Sister from Illian had sent her to the Mistress of Novices on several occasions, for poor attentiveness and weak understanding… _numbers make my head hurt, adding and subtracting is for Merchants, not Aes Sedai!_

Valinde Nathenos had sent Renn for punishment only once, and this had nothing to do a with lack of scholastic aptitude – rather, a matter of an unflattering drawing of the Aes Sedai on the blackboard, with the addition of one of those ridiculous Illianer chin-beards! Renn had had the sense to not _sign_ the work of art, but in any event, Liandrin had _told_ on her. And later found something much worse than a spider in her bed.

Renn was looking excited. "This _ter'angreal _– I think it was designed to _lead_ you somewhere! I think _that_ is its function!"

"But how will I know when I get there?"

"I am not sure – perhaps the light will change in some way."

Ellyth considered. She had a feeling that she would know when she was there in any case. She would tell Atual to prepare for another journey. And Shrina too, of course. But it still felt like feeling her way in the dark.

"You could do it, Ellyth – you could follow this _ter'angreal _all the way to…"

"To what?"

"To something from the Age of Legends, presumably – something that was hidden, perhaps for you to find!"

Ellyth frowned. If only she had more to go on. Nyein and Aiden reappeared, staring at them censoriously. The two young Aes Sedai scrambled down from the table, smoothing their clothing self-consciously.

"Already?" Renn demanded, rather rudely.

Nyein nodded. She turned to Aiden. "You had best drag Zemaille away from the Thirteenth Depository. Tell her that the wind is in the north-east." The younger Sea Folk Sister smiled with anticipation and hurried away. The stately Aes Sedai swayed over to the table and tucked the piece of bark back into its protective wallet, after carefully checking that it had not been damaged. She gazed coolly at Renn.

"The Bargain was made. Our aid in locating this particular artefact that you required. In return for…" Nyein smiled at Jabal, who grinned back at her, "…an outing."

* * *

"Did you boys _shave_ this morning?"

"Yes, Shrina."

"We did, Shrina."

Shrina frowned, leaning back on the piece of wood (she thought it was called a _thwart_) and once again attempted to channel the pipe alight. Gusts of wind kept making it go out. "You don't look as though you did," she muttered.

Aebel and Blaek exchanged identical long-suffering looks and then winced as a flash of fire ignited in the bowl of the pipe. None of the sailors aboard the _Gray Gull_ were nearby, but Shrina Sedai had slipped her ring into her pouch when they reached Southharbour, and they were supposed to be travelling incognito. Shrina had told them that meant 'in disguise.' She was a mine of information! She was also in one of her… _difficult _moods.

Shrina took an experimental puff, pulled a face and coughed extravagantly, before tossing the smouldering pipe over the side of the riverboat, where it vanished beneath the water with a hiss. "Yeuch! Why in the world do people _do_ it?" Shrina wiped her hands fastidiously on a kerchief, then glared at her Warders with disapproval. "Stubble. Definite stubble. And you smell of tabac, too."

The Twins shared an unreadable glance. Unreadable to anyone except each other. They were currently hunkered down on the deck like guilty dogs. Guilty dogs with terrible hangovers. Since finding the pipe in the saddlebags, Shrina had been _impossible!_ Actually, her anger extended from when they had first come crawling back to the rooms they shared round about dawn, but it was difficult to nag one's Warders while they were unconscious. The silence stretched out. It was at times like this that neither wished to be the one to _start _a sentence, in order for the other to finish it.

"Red-eyed, unshaven and _stinking_ of tabac." Shrina shook her head sadly over the iniquitous behaviour of young men.

"We worked the forms with Jabal Gaidin this morning-"

"-and then we shaved our faces right afterwards."

"Pah!"

"We are not sure how the pipe got in the saddlebags-"

"-perhaps a Darkfriend put it there to discredit us?"

"Hah!"

Shrina had certainly enjoyed the Feast of Lights to excess, as she usually did, but as far as she was concerned, you were _supposed _to. That was the whole point! Besides, she could barely even _remember_ most of it… Continuing with such behaviour once the Feast was over, however... that was, of course, quite different. After the Feast, you were meant to abjure such behaviour for another year, whilst making a charitable donation. Shrina had put her remaining three silver marks into the hand of an expectant beggar on Firstday, as was customary, and was still feeling virtuous about it.

"The smell of tabac is no doubt from-"

"-Hammar Gaidin, who was also there-"

"-and is fond of smoking the Two Rivers tabac."

Shrina scowled darkly.

"In his pipe."

This last was unnecessary and made the whole thing sound more rehearsed than it actually was. Aebel glared at Blaek, who glared back.

"Worked the forms with Jabal Gaidin? Bah! Went out drinking and carousing into the early hours with Jabal Gaidin, more like!"

The Twins opened their mouths in unison and Shrina hissed at them, angrily. They promptly closed their mouths and pouted, like mischievous, rebellious schoolboys. Their big brown eyes were fixed on hers, akin to those of a naughty puppy that had misbehaved and wanted to be forgiven.

"Stop doing that! It won't work this time!"

The Twins sighed, resumed their habitual expressions (a sort of cold, challenging stare) and eyed each other ruefully. It was clearly time to come clean about last night…

"We _did_ go out to drink to the health of Jabal's mother-"

"-who has recently been made Wavemistress of her Clan-"

"-and I expect that the legendary Queen Mab of fabled Aelfinnland was there too, dancing on the table! How about _that_ for finishing off one of your bloody sentences!" Shrina's tone was triumphant – she had both the upper hand _and_ the moral high-ground!

The Twins winced, glanced at each other, attempted to continue.

"Perhaps we drunk-"

"_Drank!_" hissed the other Twin.

"Drank a little more wine than we intended-"

"-_and_ smoked a pipe or two, so as not to offend our host-"

"-but… we… uh…"

Aebel had run out of words – the Twins had always mostly scorned them in favour of deeds. Usually violent (if virtuous) deeds that got them into big trouble. But that was before they met Shrina, who had enough words for all three of them! Aebel looked at Blaek, who shook his head, at a loss himself. Shrina leant forward, running a suspicious hand over each identical face.

"Well, perhaps you _did_ shave, a little… very well, if my faithless Warders would rather go out with other Gaidin and wallow in drunken, swinish pleasure, served by brassy tavern maids of ill-repute, preferring such debauchery to attending their Aes Sedai, then so be it. It was not a particularly dull evening, without you. I read aloud to myself from a small book of romantic poetry." Shrina ceased the smooth, vaguely caressing touch she was giving to their rather sandpapery faces and opted instead for taking an earlobe each between her fingertips. The Twins pretended to flinch. She pinched hard with her nails. They really did flinch, this time. "But aside from all of that – you _know_ how I feel about _beards!_"

Suitably chastened, their ears released, the Twins retreated further down the riverboat to supposedly check on the horses, which had been lowered down into the hold on a sling. Shrina nodded with satisfaction. That had told _them_.

Aebel and Blaek were shaping-up to be excellent Gaidin, even Atual thought so, and Shrina rarely had to put her foot down these days. Not since that business a year ago… the brothers from Mayene had resolved to grow beards and no amount of complaining and remonstrating (or nagging and bullying, as they saw it) would dissuade them. She supposed that her Warders wished to look more mature, but she _loathed_ facial hair on a good-looking lad! She did not mind if an ill-favoured fellow wished to cover his unsavoury features beneath a thick layer of fur – but some boys had faces that simply _had_ to be stared at!

It was only after a month of enduring clumps of scraggly fluff on her Gaidin's chins that Shrina hit upon the idea of suggesting that their short, close-cropped beards were certainly very much in the _Tairen_ style (which they certainly were not). But, framed as a suggestion, her words did not violate the Three Oaths and happily, the scissors and razors had promptly come out and the vile beards had disappeared, never to return. Even when they were being pursued by large amounts of Trollocs, Shrina had made a point of heating their shaving water for them every morning since.

Shrina needn't have been alone last night usually, despite having few friends in the Tower, but for the fact that Renn had disappeared into the catacombs of the Library archive-basements and had not been seen for days, her Warder going down there with meals three times a day, meals that were often cold by the time he found her. Or the fact that Ellyth was still in Dorlan, though expected back any day now… which was rather why she had left in such a hurry, almost as soon as the _news_ came. If anyone could talk her out of this, it would be Ellyth... But her chance had come, a once in a lifetime opportunity. She _had_ to do this, she had been waiting for twenty bloody years!

Shrina rose and leant on the rail, the cool river-breeze streaming her hair out like a russet banner. The great river was quiet, a pair of empty barges under sail up ahead, a small white boat with a big triangular sail passing beneath one of the bridges behind them and to one side, another rivership going upstream without the advantage of wind or current, its oars spiderwalking over the smooth surface of the Erinin.

It was good to be leaving Tar Valon so soon, good to be back on the water, even though it wasn't the Ocean… Shrina felt bad about Ellyth though, felt as though she was abandoning her friend, even though she _had_ to. The white sailboat was closer now, the large sail straining at its single mast, while the other rivership was passing them, sailors who knew each other exchanging ribald comments across the intervening water.

Ellyth would be _so_ annoyed with her! Shrina knew that her friend would understand, though. Eventually. At least, she _hoped_ that she- suddenly, the narrow white boat with the big triangular sail was right on top of them! It was going to hit them! At the last moment it changed course smoothly, sending a bow wave over the rivership's stern, sweeping past alongside only a cake-toss away! She could see the name _Silverpike_ painted on the bow. The captain of the _Gray Gull_ was not pleased. Leaving one hand on the tiller, he raised the other, clenched into a fist and shook it.

"Burn your Soul, you bloody maniac!" roared Huan Mallia.

The crew manning the halyards of the sailboat seemed to find this amusing – they cackled loudly as they pulled deftly at ropes, taughtening the sail, bare feet moving surely over the inclined deck of the craft in a smooth, utilitarian dance. Shrina stared at them as they passed close by – three older women, though she couldn't have said _how_ old, heads wrapped in silk scarves, wearing oilcloth trews and colourful blouses... One was tall, another round, the last with wisps of silver hair escaping from beneath her scarf… they all seemed vaguely familiar, yet Shrina could not have said why – but then, she rarely visited the Library. And behind them, standing confidently at a large, spoked wheel… someone she definitely _did_ recognise!

With surprising speed, Shrina's head disappeared from sight beneath the rail. The Twins came back from the stern where the Tairen captain was still bellowing insults at the sailboat. They stopped and stared at their Aes Sedai curiously. Why was Shrina Sedai crouching down there?

"Duck!" she hissed. They ducked. After a moment, she risked a glance – the sailboat was far ahead of them now. She could hear Jabal shouting something that sounded like "ready about!"

Shrina turned to the bemused Twins, squatting beside her. "It's Jabal Gaidin's boat!" she explained. She watched as the sailboat tacked, the three women on deck deftly avoiding the swinging boom, it's sail shivering for a moment before catching the wind, diagonalling back toward the Island on a different heading. For a moment, she thought that Renn might have read the note, sent Jabal to bring her back. But it looked as though he was just out on one of his pleasure cruises… whoever were those three women, though?

* * *

The balustrade above the south-westernmost river gate gave a fine view of the Erinin. Beyond, the sun was beginning to set over Dragonmount. Shading her eyes, Ellyth could just make out Jabal's sailboat in the distance, sweeping back around a large three-masted rivership that was heading south. They were alone – anyone thinking to join them would be put-off by the stern Gaidin leaning against the steps. Ellyth glanced at Atual. He looked oddly content, if one could ascribe such a mood to a man who always seemed ready to kill at a moment's notice.

That morning, Atual had been called away to a sparring tournament for the Younglings, of all things. Although he had grumbled about it, Ellyth suspected he was actually quite pleased to be asked to sit between Hammar and Coulin and judge the bouts. His only comment on the proceedings had been; "those two Andoran brothers are tolerably skilled with the blade – but with Gareth Bryne as a teacher, they bloody well _ought_ to be!"

Atual had occupied the place that normally went to Alric, the Amyrlin's Warder, who was in Shienar too, naturally. Even Renn had not been able to find out why they had gone there, and there was little that went on in the Tower that she could not put her considerable talents to learning about. Her Brown Ajah friend was leaning on the balustrade beside her, watching the sailboat closely through a long spyglass.

"I do wish he wouldn't go so close to other boats," Renn muttered.

"I think that those in the other boats wish it too!"

"Yes, Jabal _has_ had several complaints from the Dockmaster…"

"I am sure he has. What is that big triangular sail?"

"He said it was called a 'spinaker' or a 'spilaker' or something like that. I forget. There are so many names for things on ships, it is like having to learn the Old Tongue all over again!"

"It makes the boat go very fast, but it is still only a river. Does your Warder not miss the sea?"

"He did at first, though not as much as you might think… Jabal is a little unusual, for one of the Atha'an Miere. He can even ride a horse! Well, sort of. But he has his sailboat, as you can see. He built it himself, though all that wood and brass and rope cost me a whole year's stipend and I got in terrible trouble with the Head Clerk… but it was worth it. Besides…" Renn bit her lip, pretending to be intent on focusing the looking-glass.

Ellyth glanced at her curiously. It was usually hard enough to get Renn to _stop_ talking, she rarely ended a sentence of her own accord! "Besides?"

"Oh… I was just remembering something… nothing of much importance..." _Besides,_ _Jabal said he couldn't marry me unless he had his own ship that he had built himself, which he would then give _back_to me as a bridal gift! Odd customs the Sea Folk had… but the honeymoon made it all worthwhile..._

Renn couldn't say any of this out loud, of course, not even to Ellyth. Perhaps to Shrina… that reminded her. Renn checked the breast pocket of Jabal's coat, a small, pale jacket made out of sharkskin, which she was wearing draped over her shoulders against the chill evening air. Jabal had killed the shark himself, but only after it had tried to eat him. She felt paper crumple beneath her fingers, a small note sealed with wax.

"Jabal always says that tacking about on a river doesn't compare with true salt-sailing, whatever that is supposed to be, but it is good to feel water under a keel, even so…"

"His crew seem to be enjoying themselves too."

They giggled. Usually, the Sea Folk Sisters, with their culture of rigid _Atha'an Miere_ hierarchy, were an exemplary example of Aes Sedai formality. Usually. But they had made a greater sacrifice than most, when they came to the Tower. Let them feel water under a keel also.

Renn shook her head at the thought of the Library Sisters. "Nyein really doesn't like me, does she? I expect she thinks that I am not good enough for her precious nephew…" Renn coloured. "I mean, not good enough to have him as my Gaidin… perhaps she wanted Zemaille to bond him…" Ellyth was still staring at her curiously.

Renn was looking flustered. She was definitely hiding something.

"She can't stand you either, Ellyth!"

"Mmm. I shall have to bear the disappointment of that somehow. But the Sea Folk are clannish, both literally and figuratively." Ellyth shrugged. "In any case, Nyein cannot dislike us as much as you think, or she would not have shown us the weave."

"What weave?"

"The one that removes stains, of course. That older Sisters will not deign to share with younger Sisters, until they feel that they are sufficiently advanced? She channelled right in front of us, she must have known we would see her weaves!"

"Oh, did she do that? I didn't notice…"

"Honestly, Renn!" There was no point talking to her. Instead, Ellyth embraced the Source and channelled the same complex threads, attacking the tea-stains on Renn's gown. "Pay attention!"

"It's alright, I have it now. Water and Air _there_, Earth _there_…"

"There is a riding-dress in my room that could badly use this on the hem. I assume it works on cattle-dung!"

Renn blinked. "With everything else going on, I forgot to ask, how were the cows?"

"If one more person asks me that, I shall scream!" Ellyth snapped.

Sending Ellyth to Dorlan in answer to an urgent call regarding sick cows, instead of a Yellow Sister who specialised in such things, had been a particularly inventive penance handed out by Lelaine Sedai… the cursed things had stank, their lowing and bellowing had got on her nerves and one of them had even stepped on her foot! She had Healed them, though. The ones that would stand still long enough. Ellyth would not let it be said that she was too proud to Heal cows. She expected Shrina would make some kind of a joke about it… come to think of it, where was she? She had not seen her Green Ajah friend since returning and finding an urgent note from Renn waiting in her rooms. She had gone straight to Renn's study. After discarding her cow-soiled garments and changing into the dark blue silk that had been waiting for her at Mistress Alkohima's, naturally.

"Where is Shrina? If we are to discover what the _ter'angreal_ leads to, I had best tell her to make ready."

Renn's face went completely blank.

"Renn? What is it?"

"Um… Shrina asked me to give you this, the moment you enquired as to her whereabouts… _don't blame me_, she made me _promise!_ She said she would send a message telling me she had arrived safely, and I should pass it on to you..."

"Arrived where?" Renn bent back to her spyglass, suddenly taking a great interest in the river again.

Ellyth sighed. The note Renn had passed her was small, sealed with green wax, an eye over some waves impressed into it. So Shrina was still using her grandfather's old seal. Ellyth broke the wax. The note was short and gauche, with frequent underlining of words. Definitely from Shrina.

_Dearest __Ellyth, only time to __scribble __a few lines but I am off to __Illian__ on the first ship I can find. Please forgive me for __deserting__ you but I am on __important __business__ for the Battle Ajah and cannot delay long enough to bid you __farewell__ in person. How was Dorlan? They made __me__ rake dead leaves off all the paths as __my__ penance! Anyway, I hope the __cows__ are feeling better now. I hate cheese, though, so who cares? _

_Affectionately yours, Shrinalla Sedai, her mark._

Illian? Of course! Returning from Dorlan, while they waited for a line of market-day wagons to clear the bridge, Ellyth had heard the news from Merana Ambrey. The Grey Sister had recently returned from settling a trade dispute in Altara, passing through Illian on her way back to the Tower. After centuries, the Great Hunt of the Horn had been called again!

"Illian! I might have known!" Ellyth passed the note to Renn, who scanned it with a brief glance.

"Well, it wasn't _just_ that the Hunt was called, though I suppose it was the main thing…"

"Renn, you know perfectly well the fool girl has convinced herself that she is going there on official business – and yet, she will end up taking the bloody Oath along with all of the other idiots!"

"Well, yes. I expect so."

"She will have her Gaidin take it too!"

"Possibly…"

"Probably! I know why she sneaked off like this, too – she knew I would have tried to stop her! Her and that bloody Horn! As if the ridiculous thing even exists!"

"Oh, I am sure that the legend is based on some sort of factual-"

"You know she even has a _tattoo_ of the Horn of Valere? On her arm, like a sailor! She made her Warders get them too!"

"Goodness! Well, Shrina _has_ always been unconventional. But the Hunt for the Horn wasn't the _only_ reason she went haring off to Illian – you haven't heard about the strange girl, yet."

"What strange girl?"

"The girl from Baerlon." Renn shrugged. "It's in the west of Andor."

"I _know_ where Baerlon is! I own an estate near there, remember?"

"I see. Forgive me for seeming to question your knowledge of Andoran geography. Have you ever even _been _to this estate?"

"Not yet. I have been busy, as you know. I will go there one day, I expect…" Ellyth felt defensive.

"I am sure you will. And perhaps I shall fly to the moon in an enchanted metal bird. Well anyway, this girl, 'Elmindreda' (odd names these Andorans have) is a particular friend of the Daughter-Heir, they always have their heads together… and apparently, she has a Talent. She sees things. Auras… the Pattern… Visions…"

"Visions."

"You sound sceptical. Ellyth, when Shrina demanded to know why she was squinting at her, this Andoran girl said she could see a bloody _Horn_ floating over her head! Shrina came to tell me about it afterwards, I don't think I've ever seen her that excited about anything! And you _know_ how excitable she is!"

"I do indeed."

"But this is all supposed to be a secret, though there are rumours. The Amyrlin swore this Elmindreda to silence, before she left for Fal Dara…"

"If this is all a secret, Renn, how did _you_ find out about it?"

"How do you _think?_"

* * *

Renn's study was gloomy enough at noon, but now it was getting rather dark in here. She would have lit candles, but with all this loose paper lying around, it was not a good idea. Renn sat back in her favourite chair, eyes closed, yet watching. The _tor-toise_ lurked beneath her feet, chewing a lettuce leaf with slow persistence.

The Andoran girl usually went for a ride in the afternoon, returning about this time… wait, who was that? No, not her, just a stableman... Renn watched the blurry image of a man in a leather apron dumping a barrow-load of straw into a stall, then leaving. Where _was_ the dratted girl? Doing this always gave her a head-ache.

* * *

Ellyth perched on the wooden bench, pretended to knit. The practice yard was empty except for the two shirtless Warders attempting to maim each other with pieces of wood. At this hour, the Tower grounds were almost deserted, just a gardener trimming a hedge in the distance and a pair of people walking slowly along a path. Ellyth narrowed her eyes. The man was big, imposing, with a leonine mane of curls falling to his shoulders – which were oddly slumped, his feet dragging in the dust as he moved. She had never seen the dejected fellow before, but it was his companion who told her who he was – a tall Accepted, keeping pace with the man, watching him with eyes that held a mixture of wariness and sympathy. The strange pair disappeared behind an ornamental bush.

Ellyth shook her head. It might have been kinder to kill Logain Ablar rather than keep him as a constant reminder of the perils of claiming to be the Dragon. And it was worrying – if the records were to be believed (and she was rather sceptical about most 'official' Tower history) then since the Breaking, a male channeller who claimed this title, a Davian or a Guaire Amalasan, had arisen only once in generations – the previous False Dragon long gentled, executed and reduced to a cautionary tale told by old men to their grandchildren, who might have grandchildren themselves before the next False Dragon arose to trouble the World.

Logain had been the fourth in recent times, and as they left Arafel, disquieting rumours had already begun arriving from Saldaea to suggest that he might not be the last… that yet another fool had arisen to claim the mantle of the Kinslayer. But why was the Pattern spinning out so _many_ of them in recent years? Fools who claimed to be the Dragon Reborn, and thousands more fools willing to leave their homes and families and follow him to their deaths…

Ellyth sighed. _Men!_ Slaves to their ambition, their overpowering need to be pre-eminent! _Always trying to _outdo_ one another…_ She flinched at a particularly loud crack of wood on wood, and returned her attention to the practice yard. _Always bloody _competing_ with each other!_

Though both were well-versed with the standard practice sword, Atual and Jabal had eschewed it and were employing variety in their sparring (since they were not actually there to spar any more than Ellyth was there to knit). The match had been going on for some time now, you could track its progress back and forth across the sand of the practice yard as the opponents had alternately forced each other back and forth, one set of footprints booted, the other bare. But the fight was surely entering its final stages, both Warders were bathed in sweat and had a slightly wild look in their eyes. To someone unused to Tower ways, it might have seemed a disconcerting sight, but Ellyth had been Aes Sedai long enough to know that this was actually how the Gaidin _enjoyed_ themselves!

Jabal was advancing across the sand with a strange swaying gate, placing each foot squarely down, immovably. His muscular torso was perfectly still, but his bare arms moved like the wind, blurring in circles. His tattooed hands gripped twin short practice-blades that whirled constantly from waist to head in a defensive pattern through which his opponent's strikes could not penetrate. A wooden pole with a sphere of padding at the end shot towards his face – Jabal intercepted it, deflecting the haft at the last moment with a loud clack of wood on wood. The pole retreated a little, then struck again.

Atual was not even using a sword! In addition to a large, round shield, he was stabbing at Jabal with a padded practice-spear, slowly giving ground before the Atha'an Miere Warder's steady advance. Suddenly, the steady advance became a lightning assault – a leap and a bare foot kicking the spear aside while the twin blades swept down parallel to each other. Atual's instant response to this unexpected attack was to discard the mop-like practice weapon and drop to one knee, raising the shield with both hands. Jabal's thin wooden lathes shattered on the hard surface, so without pause, he leapt nimbly up _onto_ the shield and attempted to finish the job with his hands! Atual launched himself to his feet, arms straightening with all his considerable power behind them, using the shield like a catapult, projecting Jabal several spans through the air, to land heavily in a cloud of sand. It took the Sea Folk Warder only an instant to recover his senses and begin to rise – but by that time, Atual was kneeling astride him, shield raised overhead, ready to bash in his skull!

"Enough!" Jabal raised a hand, first two fingers extended. "Peace!"

Atual lowered the shield, breathing a little heavily. "Light! You nearly had me there, fish-boy!" Atual stood, extending a hand and yanking Jabal to his feet.

"I feel like I just got hit by the boom!" joked Jabal, attempting to brush the sand off his back. His arms were not quite long enough.

"I don't know what the 'boom' is, but I'll take your word for it, lad."

While towelling-off the sweat and pulling their shirts back on, the Gaidin indulged in further good-natured taunting. This seemed to be as much a part of the sparring ritual as bowing to each other beforehand…

Ellyth felt a certain obscure pride that _her_ Warder had won, and was taller, with bigger shoulders and arms, than Renn's Warder... though the Sea Folk Gaidin was marred by a great deal less scarring. Not that she was paying _that_ much attention to either of them, of course.

Ellyth glanced toward the Lesser Stables which stood nearby, while her long fingers fiddled with the knitting needles. Where was the girl? It was important that they meet, that no-one see them do so, and this had seemed like the best way to accomplish that. At the time.

As they came over, Atual and Jabal were still arguing about swords in general and the short, ivory-hilted blade that the Sea Folk Warder was tucking back into his sash in particular. Like most Gaidin, conversationally they tended to keep to the topics that held their common interest. Warding, weaponry, warfare... (and, when the Sisters were not around) …women.

"…don't care _what_ you say, Jabal Lionfish," Atual was refuting, "that fancy ivory hilt might _look _nice but it'll get slick with sweat or blood in the middle of a fight, turn in your hand and you'll end up slicing out your own gizzard, quick as losing nine copper bits down the alehouse!"

"As your dear mother no doubt used to say. This hilt was carved by Master Zaine _himself_, three-hundred years before I was born, it is the embodiment of the skill and sophistication of Clan Takana, absolutely to be displayed at all times – and you are saying that I should cover it up with _pigskin?_ With the skin… of a _pig?_"

"Or braided bull-hide, that gives a good grip too. I know an old Kandori swordsmith in the City who could do it for you, give him my name and you'll get a fair price. Or better still, the man could make you a _real_ sword! That Sea-Folk blade of yours may be sharp enough-"

"You have seen me drop a silk scarf onto it, seen it sliced in two by-"

"By its own weight, yes, only about ten times. You're going to run out of silk scarves at this rate…"

"Then my sister's husband will send me _more_, for his hold is full of the things and he will not sell until the price improves!"

"So it's sharp, granted, but where is the _reach?_ You have to be stepping on their toes in order to stab them!"

"Have you ever fought pirates on a rolling deck in high seas?"

"No. Not as exciting as it sounds, I expect..."

"Believe me, my friend, when one fences on a surface that tips back and forth beneath one's feet, the shorter the blade the better. And if the pirate is too far away for me to tread on his toes, then-"

With a screech of steel Jabal's short sword left its sheath, his hand flung almost casually out as it span across the practice yard, shining blade a circular blur, before embedding point first in the chest of a straw target-dummy. Atual laughed, something he rarely did, a brief, harsh sound. He beat his practice-spear briefly against the wooden shield in approbation, before returning them to their racks and retrieving his curved, Power-forged blade from where he had left it.

Ellyth sighed and shook her head. _Men! Always showing-off!_ Though part of her frustration was aimed at the knitting. The cursed needles were tangled in the wool again, the pink thing she was producing was decidedly shapeless, and not at all mitten-like. She should have attempted something less ambitions. A hat, perhaps.

Jabal strode over to the straw target, already feathered with arrows, and retrieved his sword. He pulled his sheath from his sash and slapped the sword back into it in one quick, deft motion before beginning to tuck the whole assemblage back – then paused, eyes widening, seeming to quiver slightly. He glanced up, his dark eyes meeting Ellyth's across the practice-yard. He nodded to her.

_Finally! _Tucking away the vile knitting with relief, Ellyth rose smoothly, adjusting her skirts. Atual glanced at her questioningly but she shook her head slightly, before gliding away. Atual watched her go, lips pursed with disapproval. Straightening his sword in his sash, Jabal came over to join him, bare feet scuffing in the sand.

"How does your Aes Sedai do it?" Atual wondered, "sending you a message through the Bond like that?"

"A pre-arranged signal. She thinks of something particularly… warm… and… well, I find myself thinking about it as well..." Jabal smiled, as though recalling a pleasant memory.

Atual nodded, his face blank. But he grinned on the inside. _Warm? Yes, like a nice warm _bath_, I would expect!_

Jabal slapped him on the back. "Come along, my friend, our Aes Sedai have dismissed us – I have a sealed flask of fine apple brandy and two silver cups, and I will even let you place the first stone! Why don't we..?" Atual stared at Jabal levelly, flinty-eyed. Jabal sighed.

"That is to say, why don't _you_ sneak after _your _Aes Sedai (even though she has told you not to) in case this strange girl tries to stab her with one of those little knives she keeps up her sleeves…" – Atual nodded approvingly – "…and why don't _I_ go and stand over _my_ Aes Sedai (even though she has told _me _not to) in case Darkfriend assassins lurk within the Tower…" Atual grinned briefly and clapped Jabal on the shoulder, hard enough to stagger the shorter Sea Folk Warder.

"Jabal, lad," he stated, "I think that you are _finally_ getting the hang of being Gaidin. But always remember, even when your Aes Sedai dismisses you… in fact, _especially_ when she dismisses you, a Warder's duty only ends when he is _dead!_ And even that is a poor excuse, if you ask me. But you are doing quite well, considering your deficient origins. Why, I expect that in a few more years you will even have begun to wear _shoes_…"

"Shoes? _Never!_"

* * *

Min Farshaw hefted the saddle over the side of the stall – _sheep-swallop, the straps were all tangled!_ – and turned back to her horse with a handful of straw, to give the dusty-coloured gelding a good rub-down. It had been a fine ride, twice around the Ogier Grove and a good gallop at the end, but it was cold and she was hungry, speculating on the possibility of a bowl of hot vegetable soup by the Refectory fire. Perhaps if Elayne was done with her chores, they could eat together… it still amused her that she could be handed a freshly-scrubbed bowl by the young woman who would one day be her Queen! Yes, vegetable soup, and perhaps one of those crusty rolls, if there were any of them left-

"Elmindreda."

"Yaahh!" When Min's heels touched the floor again, she whirled angrily. A slight, slim Sister with large, dark eyes was gliding silently from the shadows at the end of the stable.

"What do you want?" _You scared the life out of me!_

The Aes Sedai smiled. She wore no shawl, just a dark, silken gown, chestnut ringlets clustering about her slender neck. Incongruously, there was a cloth knitting-bag slung over her shoulder on a thin strap, trails of wool poking out. She seemed rather young, for a Sister, but with a self-assurance that belied her years. And there was something, a definite aura… Min tried not to look, but she couldn't help herself. She never could. The vision above the Aes Sedai's head was one of the most complex she had ever seen, it took an effort not to stare, entranced, as though at a difficult blacksmith's puzzle that needed to be figured-out before you picked it up. Min's eyes snapped back to the Aes Sedai's.

"Well? Can I help you?" _If she wants me to saddle her horse, I'll just pretend that I work in the stables and do it…_

"I hope that you can." The Aes Sedai's voice was cultured, her tone knowing.

"Who are you?"

"Who am I? Someone who knows your secret, Elmindreda Farshaw of Baerlon, in the west of Andor."

Min scowled, retrieved the straw from where it had been dropped, and commenced rubbing-down her horse. "I don't know what secret you are talking about, Aes Sedai," she muttered. _Curses! I knew when I told that Green Sister about the Horn, she would gossip to her friends and others would come knocking! _"And it's just _Min_." _Bloody Aes Sedai, if they're _all_ going to all start sneaking up on me in the stables, I should charge them a gold mark each!_

"I think that you _do_ know, just Min. I refer to your Gift. And there are others in the Tower who know also. The more people who share a secret, the less likely it is to remain a secret, yes? Siuan Sanche knows, probably Leane, perhaps Anaiya… oh, and Moiraine, certainly. I understand that you are a protégé of hers?"

"Moiraine? I don't think I know anyone of that-"

"Do not waste my time, girl!" The gelding whinnied at the Aes Sedai's tone and trotted into the stall of his own accord, leaving Min alone with the Sister… and those large, dark eyes that now held hers. "I have sworn on the Oath Rod now, but when I _was_ able to lie, I was very good at it! You, on the other hand, are a poor dissembler. Confine yourself to the truth, if you please. It will save us both time." Min sighed, and dropped the handful of straw. The Aes Sedai reached into her knitting-bag, tugged out a small edge of shawl. Blue-fringed shawl. She tucked it away again.

"It would attract unwelcome notice to wear this about the grounds, but suffice it to say, I am of the same Ajah as the Sisters I have just mentioned, the same Ajah as that from which our Amyrlin was raised. I know that you see things that ordinary people do not. You can trust me."

"Trust is a precious commodity in the White Tower. You know _my_ name but don't seem to want to trust me with _yours_. And even if there _was_ some secret, why would your Blue Ajah friends not have shared it? Don't they trust _you_?" The Aes Sedai frowned, feathery brows assuming a sharp 'v' and Min swallowed, hoping her nervousness remained undetected. Who was this woman, who spoke in the cultured tones of Amadicia, of all places? She wore the Great Serpent Ring on her left hand, kept her shawl hidden in a knitting-bag and seemed to know about her Gift… her _curse_…

Where was the bloody Amyrlin, with her endless questions about the viewings, those cold blue eyes that could nail you to your seat all morning… and the constant bloody fish-talk! What in the Pit was a grunter anyway? And now, when it looked like the cat might be out of the bag and she _needed_ her, the cursed Sanche woman had gone off to Shienar without a word of explanation! If the Amyrlin heard that she had revealed the secret of her visions, even accidentally… what had been the threat? Something to do with silverpikes, whatever _they_ were… Not for the first time, Min found herself wishing that she had never met Moiraine, and certainly never agreed to come to Tar Valon… Unwillingly, her eyes returned to the viewing above the Aes Sedai's head, the flickering golden aura around it which she somehow knew was tied to the Age of Legends… it was compelling.

* * *

After scaling the rear wall of the stable and lowering himself silently through a skylight, Atual settled down comfortably in the hayloft, not paying much attention to what was being said below – the Mistress needed no advice from him when it came to talking! – but more occupying himself with observing both entrances to the Lesser Stables at once. He spared a glance at the rafters, though. Where was-? Oh, there it was, watching him. He raised a hand, solemnly.

In her study above the Library, eyes still squeezed shut, Renn smiled, and raised her hand also.

* * *

Ellyth masked her irritation with the oddly-dressed girl. This was going to be harder than she had thought. This was the kind of sparring that _she_ preferred, her own version of what the Warders did in the practice yard. Yet her weapons were not bundles of wooden lathes – they were _words_. As expected, the girl went on the offensive.

"You say you're a Blue Sister, but that accent is pure Amador. Which is a strange place for an Aes Sedai to come from, wouldn't you say? The last time I met someone who sounded like _you_, they were wearing a white cloak with gold knots on it and standing at the head of a mob that wanted to burn me as a witch!"

"I see. I am sorry to hear that. I escaped the same fate myself, in fact, though I expect hanging is less unpleasant than burning, yes?"

"He spoke just like that – even saying 'yes?' at the end of his sentences like you do…" The girl smiled insolently. Ellyth frowned slightly. She had struggled to cure herself of the yessing, and had succeeded to the point where she now only did it about five times a day… The girl – _Elmindreda!_ – stared at her defiantly.

"I do not see the relevance in the similarity of my speech to that of the prospective witchfinder. Tell me, did you chance to overhear the name of this troublesome individual in the… white… cloak?"

"His name? The lickspittles who scratched the dragon's fang on my Aunt's front door called him Lord Montoyne, and all the _other_ arrogant, self-righteous Whitecloaks called him Child-Captain Montoyne… what of it?"

"Montoyne… Montoyne! Short and oily? Piggy-eyes, permanent scowl?"

"Yes, that's him! How did you-?"

Ellyth laughed delightedly. _Gilles Montoyne!_ Leading mobs of peasants, rabble-rousing… she might have known. Boys never grew up, they just got bigger and hairier. As children, whenever they had all played Hunt the Darkfriend in the gardens, Gilles had invariably insisted on being the Witchfinder. _And_ accusing the girls who wouldn't kiss him of witchcraft. _That little pig!_

The girl was staring at her in some surprise. This was good. It indicated that she was off-guard. Ellyth smiled. Her turn. Time to attack.

"It might interest you to know that the Child-Captain who wanted to burn you as a witch once _ruined_ my seventh Nameday celebration by crying and wetting himself when the Illuminator set off the fireworks! Though I suppose that this information is of little use to you now. _Yes?_"

Ellyth stepped closer. The girl took a step back, bumping into her saddle. They were about the same height, dark eyes level, but there was no doubt which one of them was doing the looming.

"Now… Min. My name is not important, but you know that I cannot lie. I swear by the Light that I will never speak of your… talent… to another soul. In return, I would like you to answer _one_ question."

"What bloody question?" Sulky, but not incompliant. Good.

"When you saw me, I startled you. Deliberately, I am sorry to say. You looked at me for a moment, then at something above my head, though you did your best to hide it."

"I didn't…"

"Yes, you _did_."

"If this is about that Green Sister, if she said something, then…"

"She said nothing. A little bird told me, in a manner of speaking. You apparently saw a… Horn, over her head. Tell me… what do you see over _mine?_"

"But it wasn't even the Horn of Valere – it was made of bronze!"

"That is beside the point-"

"All the stories and songs say the Horn is _golden!_ I don't know what this other horn is, a _ter'angreal_ maybe, or a… I don't know! It's just _pictures_, it isn't as though there's a _label_ underneath! I _tried_ to tell her it wasn't _that_ bloody Horn, but she didn't listen, just rushed off with a strange look on her face!"

_Yes, the look of an idiotic Hunter for the Horn, dropping everything, abandoning her friends and setting out to chase after a foolish story!_

"Calm yourself. The other Vision is of no concern. Take a deep breath. Good. Take another. Excellent. Now – tell me, what do you see?"

Min sighed.

"You won't tell anyone? It is not something I like to… advertise."

Ellyth shook her head solemnly. "On my hope of Rebirth, I will say nothing."

Min held her eyes for a long moment, then raised her gaze. She squinted, then her eyes took on a faraway, glazed look, her voice becoming toneless as she spoke.

"I see two things… no, one thing… I see a man… no, a weapon… wait… they are _both_ there, shifting back and forth – they are the same! The man is a weapon, the weapon is a man…" For a long moment, Min continued to stare, then she lowered her gaze, muttering, "he sleeps… beneath… a broken cliff…"

Ellyth stared. Though it had faded somewhat, the memory of her Testing was still fresh, one image leading to the next. The split crag, like horns rising up… the chasm, leading down… and there, beneath the ground, something waited for her to find it. A weapon? A man? Which?

"Is there anything else? Anything at all?"

Min shook her head, looking tired and a little resentful. Then, she shrugged.

"Oh, only that this weapon or man or whatever it is, comes from the Age of Legends. There's an aura around the whole viewing, golden and serene…" For a moment, Min's face took on a look of wonder. "Apart from the crystal, that's all I saw."

"Crystal?"

"It was there for a moment, just a flash, but somehow I knew it was linked to the man in the viewing… a way of waking him?"

"What did this man look like?"

"I couldn't see him, he was shining too brightly. But the crystal was like a ball, only flatter…"

"Like this?" Min blinked at the crystalline _ter'angreal_ Ellyth had pulled from the knitting bag.

"Yes… exactly like that, except with a red light…"

Ellyth embraced the Source and channelled Spirit for a moment – the crimson light pulsed briefly. Min flinched, then looked at her suspiciously. Ellyth tucked the _ter'angreal_ away again, and inclined her head politely.

"Thank-you for your help, Elmindreda. Forgive me if I startled you." Ellyth smiled. "That was a most impressive jump, by the way." The girl dressed as a boy scowled. Apart from a somewhat differing approach to what could be classed as acceptable garments, Ellyth sensed that the two of them had more in common than mere past accusations of witchcraft. A pity the girl could not channel, she had passion, determination, courage… she would have made a fine Blue.

* * *

There were several small, brown bats hanging upside-down, just below the stable rafters. It was not yet dusk, when they would wake and go hunting for moths and grubs – all were still asleep. All but one. The furry creature swivelled its head slightly, watching as Ellyth left the stable as unobtrusively as she had entered it, leaving the girl staring after her for a moment, before she turned away and began angrily untangling her tack.

The bat blinked its small eyes. It did not know why it was awake when it should have been asleep, or why it had been watching the entrance to the stable and listening to the sounds the two people had made. There seemed to be someone else watching through its eyes. Abruptly, it felt the second consciousness slip away and it was alone inside itself once more. The small bat yawned, and closed its eyes.

* * *

Renn opened her eyes. Jabal was leaning decorously against the mantelpiece, holding a sealed flask. She blinked, her blurred vision slowly returning to normal. Bats did not have particularly good eyesight, she preferred birds for what she did. Their ears were_ very_ good, though, she had overheard the conversation easily, though it had sounded somewhat distorted. The more people who knew of a secret, the less likely it was to be kept… Renn sighed. There were only four people alive who knew about what she could do with animals, perhaps six if Shrina had told her Warders… she trusted all of them implicitly, they were closer than family, but even so… The problem was, like young Min Farshaw, Renn had a secret ability.

Renn remembered the first time it had happened. She had been watching her pet mouse while he busily ate the crumb of cheese she had just given him, and had been wondering what it would be like to be a mouse herself. Sometimes, she felt that there was something in the air around her that she could touch, though with her mind rather than her hands. Mother said she had an over-active imagination. What would it be like, to see the world through a mouse's eyes? Suddenly, her head felt strange, there was a rushing noise in her ears – and she was crouching in the cage on the hearth, watching herself! Her eyesight seemed different, less keen, but through the bars she could clearly see a small girl kneeling down, wearing a white dress, her pale hair tied with ribbons, eyes tightly closed. Renn had watched in amazement as she slowly toppled over onto her side, her head striking the floor sharply – and suddenly, she was no longer in the cage, but back behind her own eyes again, which had sprung wide open!

Renn was lying on the floor near the fireplace, she had been supposed to be sweeping up the cinders but had become engrossed with her mouse instead, so her new dress was probably dirty already. Mother would be displeased, _and_ there was a painful lump on her head – but even so, she was elated! A headache and sustained nagging about comportment was well worth what she had just experienced – somehow, she had been _inside_ Rollo, looking out through his eyes! She wondered what she had just done… she wondered if she could do it _again_. The mouse watched Renn, with the slowly waning expectation of more cheese. He had no idea that his name was 'Rollo' any more than he knew what had just happened, either.

Jabal saw that she was back and came over, leaning down. They kissed.

"What are you doing here, my Lionfish?"

"Trying to be a good Warder, Mistress of my Heart."

"But you _are_ a good Warder, you don't need to try. I expect Dannelle's puny Gaidin couldn't even have _lifted_ that Ogier book! But I thought I said that after you gave Ellyth the signal you could have the evening free?"

"I shall pass the evening with my Aes Sedai."

"How thoughtful of you. I say, is that apple brandy you have there?"

"Yes, and two silver cups."

"Excellent! Then that will be exactly enough cups for Ellyth and I!" On cue, the door swung open, sending a precarious pile of books flying and Ellyth came in, unaccustomedly flushed with excitement, Atual trailing behind. Renn stood, swaying a little (she felt vaguely wrong standing upright, as though she should still be hanging upside down!) and filched the brandy from beneath Jabal's arm.

"Here, take your ridiculous knitting-bag back," Ellyth declared, dumping the offending article onto a crowded table and whisking her shawl out.

"What is this pink thing in here supposed to be?"

"A mitten. Or a hat, I am not sure. You were right about the _ter'angreal,_ by the way – it is definitely some sort of device for finding things."

"I know, I was listening with my furry little ears, remember?"

"Provided that the girl is not merely making it all up…"

"You sound as sceptical as old Morvrin… do you really think that she is a fake?"

"No… no, I misspoke, I am certain that she is seeing parts of the Pattern itself." _How else could she have known about the broken cliff from the Testing?_

Abruptly, Renn seemed to notice that there were two Gaidin still in her study. "Keep watch outside, my dear," she commanded breezily, snatching the silver cups from her Warder, who was looking surprised. Ellyth settled herself carefully into the other armchair, keeping a wary eye out for the _tor-toise_. Atual loitered in the doorway.

"You too, Atual Gaidin," Ellyth murmured. As he turned away, she added, "and you might want to brush some of that _hay_ off your coat…" Skulking about as if she needed protection from a mere girl! She often wondered if the Gaidin thought their Aes Sedai capable of walking across a street without their hand being held.

The door did not exactly slam behind the two Warders, but it closed louder than was perhaps necessary. Ellyth and Renn shared a conspiratorial grin. One had to keep the Gaidin in line, or they would walk all over you. Ellyth had sworn not to speak of the girl's viewings. So, she snagged a sheet of paper from Renn's desk, selected one of her less grubby pens, and wrote the information down instead. When she looked up, Renn was rubbing her temples.

"How is your head?" Ellyth enquired.

"Not too bad. Bats aren't as bad as mice. Birds are the best, though…"

"Have you ever tried it with a fish?"

"Of course not! I might _drown_… brandy?"

"Well, alright. But just a thimbleful. We have plans to make."

* * *

Dawn. The outskirts of Jualdhe, another of the bridge-towns, but this time on the western bank of the Erinin. A cold mist clung low to the ground. Ellyth turned away from taking a last look at Tar Valon. She had the strange feeling that she might never see it again. Atual was waiting patiently astride Caba, the lead-reins of the pack-mule draped over his saddle. They had a tent, lanterns, enough supplies for three months.

Ellyth took the Crystal out of one of the pockets of her sheepskin coat, a gift from Falme, and took the compass out of the other. Jabal had given it to her, making her promise to smash it to pieces before letting it fall into the hands of one of his Clans' mercantile competitors. Ellyth had promised faithfully to do just that.

It fascinated her, the way the compass needle always pointed to the north, straight towards the Great Blight. It was nothing to do with the Power or anything like that, but Renn's explanation of its workings had gone right over her head. Ellyth channelled Spirit into the Crystal and compared the point of light with the compass. By chance (or perhaps there was no such thing) it indicated the exact direction that the Maradon road was already taking.

Ellyth glanced at Atual. "Saldaea," she said. "To start with, at least."

"How far will we go, Mistress?"

"As far as we have to, Atual Gaidin."

The Aes Sedai and her Warder heeled their mounts to a trot and set out, passing beneath the shadow of Dragonmount as the sun rose in the east.


	5. 4: Before the Stedding

_A stedding __is a useful bulwark in any large field-engagement, impracticable as a well-fortified bastion. If not more so, for it is easier to force a Trolloc up a scaling-ladder than into the domain of the Ogier. Of course, a man would have to be supremely lacking in sentiment to feel no guilt at bringing war to a stedding, utilising its peaceful aura for tactical advantage. Fortunately, Tamulchinda is such a man. _

**Lord****-General Wheylan Alsibaye Tamulchinda**

"_**Collected Memoirs - My later Campaigns, after Maighande**_**" [AB 1314-1345]**

* * *

_**C**__**hapter Four * Before The Stedding **_

"You, sir. How many did you kill?"

"Three, my Lord-General."

The General uttered a peculiar, barking, coughing noise and swiftly raised knobbly-jointed, richly be-ringed fingers to his mouth, or the area where his mouth would have been evident, were it visible. The Pikeman flinched a little at the odd sound, and one of the mounts of the General's Staff took exception to it also – the thoroughbred Essenian mare tossed her head and skipped a little.

Barashelle Sedai cursed under her breath and twisted the reins angrily, attempting to curb the skittish animal. With little success. At which, Anselan Gaidin walked his warhorse forward and seized the bridle, bringing the mare swiftly under control with a powerful wrench of his arm. His Aes Sedai glared at him. Her taciturn Warder did not appear to notice. And he kept hold of the bridle.

Tamasin Sedai observed this, and smiled secretively. Her Warders noticed also, and though their stern faces did not so much as flicker, she caught a flash of amusement through the Bond from Torkil and Gwydion, though not from Chulaan, naturally. At the age of five, Chulaan had seen his mother thrown to the Myrddraal. He never laughed at anything.

No-one else paid any attention. They were all too busy watching their Lord-General, with the customary mixture of wariness and expectation. There was really no other way to do so. He could be… unpredictable.

"Three? You say three?" The General's voice always sounded odd, emerging from the lean old man who, approaching his eighth decade, still sat his horse with a back straight as a flag-staff. It seemed the voice of a younger, larger man, a deep baritone, each word sparingly grated-out in the harsh accents that told a listener that _this_ was a man from the Northlands of Jaramide, a Lancer from the Plain.

"Yes, my Lord-General... I definitely got at least three of 'em."

"Good. Three is good. But kill _four_ next time."

"I will, my Lord-General."

The Pikeman bobbed his head nervously and stepped back into the ranks. His leather armour was still liberally spattered with dark blood, drying slowly under the pale, noon sun. He was not alone in this. The Pikemen of Coremanda had not troubled to clean themselves up, since the morning's battle had merely been a skirmish, a gentle precursor to the slaughter which was expected to occur later.

The General tapped his left heel smartly into the side of Tsorovan, his pedigree Nashebari stallion, and the massive animal took a surprisingly delicate step sideways, bringing its rider opposite the next man in the long line of soldiery, the front rank of a block of nearly two-thousand Pikemen. Filthy and blood-spattered for the most part, with an impressive selection of disfiguring, age-whitened scars, clad in the faded remnants of once-gaudy uniforms, an assortment of mismatched armour scavenged from a hundred battlefields strapped over their ragged apparel. Long, slender pikestaffs rose from the Banner like a deadly ash forest, seen from a distance.

This next Pikeman was brawnier than his fellows. As the General pointed his ivory baton, he stepped forward, tapping the first two fingers of one hand against his dented helmet, shouldering his long weapon with the other. Unlike the other pikes, it ended in a splintered stump rather than a wicked, foot-long blade with a cross-hatch.

"You, sir. How many?"

"Five, Lord-General. Well…"

"_Well_, sir? Say you 'well' to your General?"

"Six? There was a big one that got away, but it had my pike-head still stuck in its guts, so mayhap it died later. Uh, my Lord-General."

The General promptly stood up in the stirrups and fixed his somewhat disturbing gaze on the splintered pike-stump. Behind him, his Adjutant shifted impatiently. The General always insisted on this post-battle ritual, but there were reports to go over, messages to send by courier, a massive and imminent counter-attack to prepare for… presently, the General sat down again.

"Certainly it died later. Certainly. We shall call that six, then. That is… that is _twice_ as many as the man next to you. Tamulchinda is pleased."

It was difficult to tell if the General was pleased or not, as impressive iron-grey moustaches covered nearly everything below the hawkish nose that jutted from his lined, bony face. But the dark, tilted eyes that, as ever, regarded the world with autocratic indifference from beneath equally impressive eyebrows, seemed to crinkle at the corners a little. This was usually a good sign.

"But kill _seven_ next time."

The General always said that. If one of his men reported that he had slain ninety-nine Trollocs, despite the impressive tally, he would still be ordered to kill one hundred the next time. But the men were used to his ways, knew that the General had his traditions and affectations. Chief of which was referring to himself in the third-person, using his House-Name instead of 'I' or 'me' – an outmoded custom of the largely-extinct Northern Jaramide Nobility, as well as the more traditionalist tribes of the Plain. The General was one of the few men alive who still spoke in this fashion. In any case, the soldiers of his Legion considered receiving a rare "Tamulchinda is pleased" equal to a medal from a lesser General.

The big Pikeman certainly seemed to think so, he grinned whilst taking a step back into the ranks. "At least seven, my Lord-General, you can bloody count on it!"

Lord Wheylan Tamulchinda was something of a legend. He looked sixty, claimed to be seventy, and was probably nearer eighty years of age. He had been destroying Shadowspawn armies on slaughterhouse-battlefields since well before any of these Pikemen had been born. And he had never been beaten. The fact that he was still alive after more battles and sieges than any ten ordinary commanders might expect to see, was testament to this.

The General adjusted the vermilion cape he wore over his close-fitting, light-grey overalls, a double row of golden buttons running down his chest rivalled by golden epaulettes on the shoulders, golden braid on the sleeves and golden stripes running down the side of each leg. Even the ceremonial spurs on his polished ebony riding-boots were solid gold, as were the rings set with large rubies on his fingers. The extravagant costume was crowned with a sable hat, wrapped with more braid. A large, golden Death's Head badge, smaller rubies filling the eye-sockets, was affixed to the front of it. The numeral '17' was embossed on the skull's forehead.

The General _still _had his tailor clothe him in the uniform of the Seventeenth Jaramide Lancers, half a century after that Legion had ceased to exist at the Sorelle Step. He had only been a young Subaltern, then, his Legion commanded by the Crown Prince, half-brother of the young Queen of Jaramide. The fool had lead all six-thousand light-cavalry up a long, narrow valley, to assault massed Darkfriend artillery positions. Less an assault, more an act of mass-suicide! Barely six hundred wounded, blood-soaked lancers had come back down that valley, but the General had been one of them. The Crown Prince had not. _That_ had been a bad day.

The General also still had Cheviz, his manservant, shave his head every morning, though there was little enough hair to remove these days. But even _his_ affectations had their limits – he scorned the wearing of a ceremonial, shoulder-length wig, a custom that had already been dying-out at the Royal Court of Barsine when the first Trolloc hordes had emerged from the Great Blight to destroy the City of the Spires, nearly three-hundred and fifty years previously.

The General turned his richly-clad head and shouted, "Harvole!"

The Captain of the Fourth Banner of the Glorious & Indefatigable Seventh Infantry Legion of Coremanda stuck his head out at the end of the rank, the numerous white and red plumes on his helmet bobbing. They were the only thing that distinguished him from his men, since he seemed to be wearing much the same rags and pieces of cast-off armour.

Captain Harvole had one piercing blue eye, balanced by a large crimson patch that mostly covered the extensive scarring from where his other eye had been clawed-out by a Draghkar, and large reddish moustaches flaring upwards beneath his aquiline nose, though not nearly so impressive as the General's. He took an unlit clay pipe out of his mouth. He may have lacked any decorative gold on _his_ ragged uniform, but several of his teeth appeared to be made from the substance.

"My Lord?" Harvole enquired, urbanely.

"Tamulchinda believes that you lost a Serjeant this morning, Harvole?"

"Aye, Pavan Thornhill took an arrow in the chest at the ford. Dead before he hit the ground, poor fellow."

"Then give his plume to _this_ man. He is Serjeant now, until he meets the Lady also, or until the end of the Wars." This last would have been a bad joke once – the end of a succession of Wars that had lasted for ten entire generations… it would have seemed inconceivable. Impossible. But now, some forty years after the Battle of Maighande, it looked as though there might finally be an end in sight. And like anything else worth having, peace would only come at great cost.

"We shall all meet Her Ladyship one day, Lord-General. Serjeant it is."

"And get him a new pike!"

"Armourer! Pike for Serjeant Stoneheath." Captain Harvole's head disappeared back into the ranks. "And make sure you dock it from his pay!" he added, before sticking the pipe back in his mouth. The Pikemen laughed loudly, Stoneheath loudest of all. It had been a long time since any of them had been paid.

The General pretended not to notice. These men of Coremanda had a more informal style than he was accustomed to, but they could march forty miles from dawn to dusk and fight a battle at the end of it. They were not expert with the variety of weapons that Bordermen trained with from an early age, but they _were_ very good at one thing in particular. They could stare across a field at a horde of Trollocs, hosts of Myrddraal galloping their dark horses back and forth, whipping the monstrous, hulking creatures into a frenzy prior to unleashing them in an all-out assault – they could stare at what might send a less-seasoned man fleeing in terror… and they could set their pikes, and stand, and _wait_. The Cavalry might take the glory and be in at the death – but a Pikeman did not have the luxury of a fast horse beneath him. Survival and victory lay in trusting the man on either side of him not to break, trusting the man above him to know what he was doing…

If Captain Harvole was surprised that his General was aware of the loss of a lowly Serjeant, he had not shown it. The General made it his business to know these things. Of course, there was a time when a General of Jaramide promoting the subordinates of a Coremandan Captain would never have been contemplated. There had been a time when each of the Ten Nations had fielded its own Grand Legions under its own Marshals, each command independent of the other, even when they shared a battlefield! But that was before three hundred years of near-constant warfare had ravaged Aramaelle and Almoren, devastated Jaramide and Coremanda, had utterly destroyed Manetheren and Aridhol.

The Forces of Light had come to the very brink of defeat before the military commands of the remaining Eight Nations had accepted that they could no longer afford the luxury of such stupidity. By which time, the soldiers of each Nation had already learnt the hard way that it was better to follow the orders of a foreign General if they kept you alive, than the commands of a native General who would only get you killed.

Besides, in these last, depleted days, it was difficult enough to cobble together a Legion from whatever under-strength Banners were available. The Lord-General's command contained Cavalry and Pike Banners from five of the Nations that had barely survived the Wars, and even a Banner of Archers from one that had not. There were the Ogier in addition, of course, each worth ten men, but there were few enough of them left now. Soldiers were not the only military commodity in short supply – the First Reserve Legion had only two Sisters of the Battle Ajah riding with them.

The pair of Aes Sedai in question watched with disinterest as an armourer brought the new Serjeant his new pike. They did not necessarily _have_ to be in attendance while the General inspected the troops – but they were attached to his Staff and it was traditional for them to take part. Aes Sedai were no strangers to tradition. A thud of the heel, Tsorovan stepped sideways on cue, a point of the ivory baton and the next Pikeman stepped forward.

"You, sir. How many did you get?"

* * *

Tamasin Ridolphi suppressed the urge to yawn with a skill that a Grey Sister might have envied and turned her head slightly, eyeing Barashelle from beneath her cowl. The girl wore a clinging, green silk gown – quite impractical for the battlefield! – beneath her fur-trimmed cloak. She was strikingly beautiful, with a pale, heart-shaped face framed by long, raven tresses, large, dark, vaguely haunting eyes and a full-lipped, passionate mouth that seemed to yearn to be kissed. Though at the moment, the lower of these lips was projecting somewhat, and a dark scowl held sway over her aesthetically-pleasing features.

The younger Aes Sedai had twitched her bridle away from Anselan Gaidin's gauntleted hand and was now gripping the reins too tightly. Which was making the dratted creature nervous again. Tamasin sighed. She had _told_ Barashelle to choose herself a stolid, war-trained gelding from the Tower stables! Not a high-bred mare that would flinch at every little thing, that might get her killed on the battlefield. That nearly _had_, earlier! But the fool girl would not listen. On her own head be it. Of course, in Anselan Gaidin, Barashelle had a Warder who was quite capable of leading her, protesting vigorously, _off_ that same battlefield!

Tamasin, securely mounted on her own well-behaved gelding, green woollen skirts divided for riding, made up the centre of a triangle, the three points of which were her Gaidin, a trio of very dangerous men atop Tower-bred warhorses, their eyes never remaining in one place for long. They were all paying particular attention to the sky at the moment, as Draghkar had been sighted. The bat-winged creatures were scouting them, which meant that the counter-attack might come soon. There were numerous flocks of ravens circling overhead also, but perhaps only some were the Dark One's eyes and the rest had merely come to feast on the dead Trollocs.

Though of different Nations and appearance, her Warders seemed strangely alike, beyond the fact that they wore the same black gauntlets and boots, the same olive-green uniforms and fancloth cloaks. Torkil was slim and dark, with a carefully-trimmed, narrow Essenian beard; Gwydion big and ruddy-complexioned, a long mane of blond hair swept back from his brow, falling down to his wide shoulders; Chulaan tall and pale, his brown hair bound back into a thick queue with the braided leather cord worn by men from the Thousand Lakes of North-Eastern Aramaelle – yet there was something subtle that connected them, made them akin. It was often that way with Gaidin who shared a Bond. Though Chulaan would not be evincing the sense of humour shared by his sword-brothers anytime soon.

Again, Tamasin had felt Torkil and Gwydion's amusement, when Barashelle yanked her bridle back, directing another glare at her long-suffering (if oblivious) Warder. They would doubtless poke fun at Anselan Gaidin about it later, though she did not know why they bothered… it was a waste of time. Anselan's reaction to being ribbed by his fellow Warders would just match his reaction to everything else, up to and including finding himself facing the Dark One. A sort of flat, emotionless stare.

Tamasin glanced at the stern Warder. Anselan could make a stone seem expressive, by comparison. His face might have been sculpted from weathered oak and his eyes, so dark as to seem almost black, stared implacably to either side of a broken nose that jutted crookedly over a grimly-set mouth, a square jaw. His skull was shaved, but for a thick top-knot, a long tail of dark, braided hair falling down his back. The hair was a little more streaked with grey than it used to be, Tamasin noted. Anselan had twice Barashelle's years, when an age-difference between Aes Sedai and Gaidin usually went the _other_ way. Though only in his fourth decade, it seemed his troublesome charge was giving him premature grey hairs!

Barrel-chested, with arms like a Blacksmith, Anselan sat his horse solidly, mount and rider standing still as statues. Though when he drew that heavy, curved blade from his sash and blurred from form to form amongst the enemy, Anselan made lightning look slow. But even severe, serious-minded Chulaan found him grim company… Tamasin shuddered at the thought of holding the Bond of such a man!

Tamasin's own Warders were as close as brothers, her comrades of uncounted battlefields, who had put themselves between her and death time and again. When they were wounded, she felt their pain as though it were her own. Her Gaidin would die for her, without hesitation… and she loved them for it. Though she would never consider taking one of them into her bed, as other Sisters of the Battle Ajah often did, especially in the long night hours preceding a battle, when all knew that the coming dawn might be the last they saw. But Anselan Gaidin… who would want to hold the Bond of a man as cold as Death itself?

But then, it was not as though Barashelle had Bonded Anselan by choice, even though when finally released from penitence and raised to the Shawl, she had said the ritual words and performed the weaves of her own volition. Grimly watched by the Amyrlin Seat, the Head of the Green Ajah and a dozen Sitters of the Hall, as she did so! A Bonding was usually a glad ceremony where the age-old rite between Aes Sedai and the brave men who guarded their lives was enacted. This had been more like a solemn Court of Law… and Barashelle more _sentenced_ to Anselan than Bonded to him. While it was not unusual for a young, newly-raised Green to have only one Warder, it was unlikely that Barashelle would ever have another. Not after her crime.

Which all meant, Tamasin supposed on reflection, that she had rather been sentenced to Barashelle in turn. Tamasin Ridolphi, Heroine of the Battle Ajah, Slayer of Seven Dreadlords, condemned to be nursemaid to a spoiled, headstrong girl! Though Barashelle certainly did not lack for bravery, and had acquitted herself well that morning. At least, until her accursed mare had bolted back toward their lines, and Anselan had to go chasing after her!

If Barashelle had been less strong in the Power, she might have been dismissed from the White Tower altogether. But in these final days of the Wars, the Tower needed every Sister in the field that it could spare. Even disgraced Barashelle, astride her flighty, nervous mare, with her grim Warder watching her like a hawk!

* * *

"Very good, Harvole. You may dismiss your men. Get some hot food inside them, while there is still time." Though really, the General had conducted the impromptu inspection to _kill_ time – everything was ready, all was in hand, despite the habitual flustered worrying of his Adjutant. He knew the strength and disposition of the enemy, having received two messages already, but would not act until he received a third. He trusted the experienced Bordermen of his Scouts Banner, but this was one of the General's Rules, from which he would not deviate – one scout might occasionally be wrong, two scouts very rarely, three _never_. Until that third scout arrived to confirm the reports of his two fellows, he would not commit his Legion to any one plan. He had ignored this Rule only once, and it had nearly lead to disaster.

"All taken care of, my Lord-General." Captain Harvole waved toward the Coremandan camp, where large cauldrons of stew were bubbling over hot flames. The General nodded approvingly. Harvole had an irreverent, laid-back manner, but he was a good officer who put his men first, and knew what was important.

"Then you may dismiss yourself also, Captain."

"Aye, Lord-General. In that case, I believe that I shall go and watch the Darkfriends kicking."

"Ah, yes… them. Tamulchinda wishes that he were still just a Captain, with time to amuse himself thus!" The General made the harsh, croaking sound that passed for laughter amongst his people. His Honour Guard joined-in with gruff, snarling noises as they drifted forward to surround their liege-lord. Walking their horses with unconscious skill, as though born in the saddle, the fifty hand-picked Jaramidan Lancers fell-in smoothly around the General and his Staff as they set-out back to the main encampment.

The Bannerman, a villainous-looking, tattooed fellow wrapped in a wolf's skin, bore the General's House-Standard, a rectangular banner affixed to a crosspiece at the top of a long staff. It depicted a snarling, bearish creature with a large bushy tail, reared-up on its hind legs, paws raised, a golden crown set with rubies perched on its head. The wolverine was an appropriate totem for House Tamulchinda – a small yet powerful predator that did not fear to attack much larger enemies.

The Honour Guard were all veterans, some still wearing the old uniforms of dead Legions as their General did, others the thick bear-skin capes and fur caps of the nomadic herdsmen who peopled the Plain, but all carried the short lances that Trollocs who trespassed onto the grasslands below the Blight had long-ago come to fear. Each wickedly sharp lance-head was adorned with a thick tuft of hair.

As a decoration, the General much preferred gold-braid to scalps, but of course he still had his own first trophy, taken from a wolf-muzzled monster that had tried to run for the safety of a stand of trees. It had not run fast enough – ramming his heels into his pony's sides, setting his lance just as Uncle had taught him, the point going cleanly into its spine... There were any number of memories from his youth that had faded over the years, though his mind was still keen. But no Plainsman would ever forget killing and scalping his first Trolloc! The hairy, greasy trophy was in a box somewhere, he believed. Cheviz would know where.

From memories to memoirs. The General did not fool himself, he knew that his time was short. The third and final volume of his personal history was close to completion, but only if he utilised every available opportunity.

"Samadrad!"

The General's Adjutant, Lord Samadrad, heeled his horse forward until they rode level. He was a short, pale man with dark, straight hair and brown eyes. He wore a fine deep purple coat of velvet and matching britches, tucked into elaborate soft leather riding-boots, the ends doubled-over and hanging down to his calves.

"Lord-General?" He spoke in the clipped, precise tones of Almoren.

"The paragraph about the Ogier _stedding_ – place it at the beginning of the penultimate chapter, over the following account of this morning's engagement."

"Yes sir." The Adjutant reached into his saddlebags.

"The working title of the last chapter shall be – 'Tamulchinda's Triumphant Invasion of the Great Blight.' " The Adjutant dug out a sheaf of papers, leaning them on the pommel of his saddle and scribbling busily with a reservoir-pen. The General nodded. "One final chapter in the life of Tamulchinda to be played-out, and then they may put him in a box in the ground, provided that the cursed manuscript goes to the book-binders! A box… in the ground!"

The General made the croaking noise again, echoed savagely by his Guard, some of whom slapped their thighs and shook their lances. The Adjutant, who had never really understood the Jaramide sense of humour, simply blinked.

"I will see to it personally, sir. The Great Library of Al'cair'raheinallen would be honoured to print several copies for their own archives, I am sure. Why, it may prove more popular even than Marshal Langlyn's book."

The General regarded his Adjutant levelly. "A flattering comparison, Samadrad. But Langlyn's book was a _manual_," he pointed-out, "Tamulchinda's book is a _memoir_." They walked their horses on for a while, the General and his Adjutant, the two Aes Sedai surrounded by their Warders, surrounded in turn by the Honour Guard. The landscape around them was barren, wiry grass that was useless for grazing, jagged, wind-carved rocks jutting from the ground. Ahead, smoke rose from the cookfires of the main encampment, a small town of canvas tents within a palisade. More smoke rose off to one side, from the battlefield. And from the _stedding_.

The General brooded a little. He had never met Marshal Langlyn, perhaps the greatest tactician to come out of Coremanda, since the man had died during the Great Winter Siege of Hai Caemlyn more than a century before his birth. But he had avidly devoured his book as a youth, instructions in the practicalities of warfare that were required reading for every Cadet at the Royal Military Academy of Shaemal – it was still called that, even though Golden Shaemal was both a huge pile of scorched rubble and a distant memory, the prestigious war-school having long-since relocated to the Stone of Tear. But beyond sensible advice regarding tactics and logistics, Langlyn's book had contained little information about the man himself. The General wanted his reader to _know_ him, to _hear_ his voice, speaking from the grave!

"Read that last part back to Tamulchinda…"

The Adjutant riffled through the sheaf of papers, cleared his throat and read; " 'Perhaps Tamulchinda's Invasion of the Great Blight carried with it an element of risk. Some men flinch from the fall of Fate's dice...' " – the General nodded enthusiastically, he _liked_ the way that sounded – " '…but if Tamulchinda were such a man, he would not have proved himself the pre-eminent field-commander of the Eight Nations. Though he might also have avoided being thrown into a damp cell to rot, deep beneath the Island of Tar Valon.' "

Tamasin Sedai smiled wryly. The cells down there were not _remotely_ damp, and the Amyrlin had relented after a week and given the General more pleasant accommodations in the main tower of the Guard's barracks – though still behind a locked door, naturally. At which, the dratted man had promptly escaped down a rope made of bed sheets, somehow getting past a dozen Warders and making it as far as Northharbour before he was recaptured. And so, back to the dungeon again…

Barashelle Sedai yawned behind her hand and rolled her eyes, not bothering to hide her boredom with the General's endless memoir-dictation. Though Tamasin saw her point, however rudely expressed – she personally felt as though she had read the cursed book three times already, even though it had not yet been printed!

The General raised a ruby-decorated finger. "Do you see, Samadrad? The reader reminded that the author was once cruelly imprisoned at the command of the Amyrlin Seat! A memoir is distinct from a manual in that it contains such items of popular interest." With posterity in mind, the General began his account of the morning's battle, his Adjutant responding with swift pen-strokes whilst skilfully guiding his horse with his knees.

It had been a straightforward affair at first – the bulk of the opposing force had been arrayed in two wings of about five-thousand Trollocs apiece, assembled to either side of the fortified position held by the Darkfriend army – the _stedding_ that they had invaded and defiled. Since for once the Forces of Light were not heavily outnumbered – these were just the advance guard of a larger force, their numbers roughly equal to the Legion – the decision was made to attack.

The General had been sitting his horse atop a steep hill, the base ringed with the men of his Honour Guard, the Aes Sedai and their Warders beside him. It was the best vantage available, with a clear view of the _stedding_ to the north and the dark mass of Shadowspawn arrayed before it. Behind the General, the long, latticed arms of the heliograph loomed up into the sky, the ends adorned with different coloured flags, like some ungainly, spindly windmill. The General gave his orders, and the men and women of the Signals Detachment began industriously tugging levers, ropes running through pulleys yanking the long arms of the heliograph jerkily into different configurations.

Flags had fluttered high in the air and both Banners of Pike responded, four thousand men moving in, slow and steady. The Coremandans marched on the left, loudly singing one of their bawdy marching songs, of which they seemed to have an inexhaustible supply. The eerily silent northern Essenians advanced on the right – big, stern men from the lands around Fel Moreina, the Lake City. They were good, solid infantry who respected the chain of command, something the men of Coremanda did not always seem to do. Strange, given the General's history. If their Captain, a towering giant of a man, thought it strange to take his orders from a General who had once briefly besieged his home-city, he did not say. Though Captain Nalwyne did not say much, as a rule. A rather quiet, unassuming fellow really, quite at odds with his appearance. No-doubt his acid-tongued Fel Moreini wife had him well-trained!

"Should I include that last remark, sir?" his Adjutant wanted to know.

"Keep writing, Samadrad, and do not interrupt Tamulchinda!" the General snapped, "you can edit the text later!"

_The only __superior officer the General had ever served willingly had also been from Fel Moreina – Yurian would tell his Captains jokes against himself and the other men of that city, tales of angry wives strapping their howling husbands when they came home late for dinner! Other tales where it was the wife who came home late and reached for the strap because the dinner her husband had cooked was now cold! "When it comes to women, whatever you do will always turn out to have been the _wrong_ thing to do," he had shouted, over the laughter, "you cannot win! Though surrendering without a fight seems to make them even angrier with you!" Perhaps these men of the Lake City had come north to the Wars for a respite from their ferocious womenfolk?_

The Trollocs had swept forward to meet the Pike Banners, howling and brandishing their cruel weapons, the ragged banners of the Ghraem'lan Band fluttering over their bestial heads. A hundred armoured Myrddraal riders spurred them on from behind, galloping their dark horses at the heels of the Trollocs, slashing at them with long whips. The army of the Shadow and the forces of Light met with the crash of monstrous bodies against steel that announced battle had begun.

The General had divided his Archer's Banner and a thousand lean, dark-eyed men armed with great longbows had paced behind each block of Pike, shooting their pile-head arrows in long arcs that flew over the clashing front ranks to whittle down the Trollocs behind. Any Myrddraal attempting to gallop around the edge of the formations instantly attracted their notice – as well as flight after flight of arrows, until both Halfman and horse strongly resembled pin-cushions.

The Ogier Guard, the General held in reserve, as he always did.

As the morning wore on, greater numbers had prevailed despite severe losses and the mass of Trollocs had gradually pushed the Pike Banners back… but then, they were _supposed_ to. Seeing the enemy apparently disengaging, the Shadowspawn had pulled in their skirmishers and closed for the kill.

At which point, the cavalry had arrived at their rear, right on time – a thousand Jaramidan Lancers and an equal number of Aramaellen horse-archers. The General had dispatched them on a twenty-mile circumvention at dawn, bypassing the enemy scouts. Their arrival came as something of a shock – long lines of lancers charging in to take the unprepared Trollocs in the back, swift cavalry-archers with recurved bows cantering up and down the flanks, unleashing swarms of arrows. Held by the Pike, flayed by the Archers, there had been nowhere for the Shadowspawn to go, nothing for them to do, but die.

At which, the General had given orders for the deathblow. He did not believe in half-measures when it came to fighting the Shadow, with which there could be no truce – victory meant the total annihilation of the enemy. Responding to the signal flags with smooth deliberation, the Pike Banners divided into columns by company, creating corridors down which the squadrons of Aelgari heavy-cavalry then swept, and in short order, the slaughter was complete. The General did not much care for these southern Knights, but they were well-disciplined and accomplished in the arts of war. Every Trolloc remaining on the field had been swiftly reduced to so-much carrion, monstrous corpses lying in piles, interspersed with the occasional still-twitching Myrddraal, much feathered with long arrows.

There remained the Darkfriend army, though. Fighting their way into the _stedding_ had proved to be a nasty business. The enemy were well dug-in, and had nothing to lose, like cornered weasels. After two assaults were bloodily repulsed, the General had done what he perhaps should have done first, and sent in the Ogier.

"…so, Tamulchinda could plainly see that it was time to unleash the axes of the Alantin Guard upon the stubborn foe… no… what is a better word for 'stubborn,' Samadrad?"

"Dogged, sir?"

"Dogged is _worse_ than stubborn, Samadrad."

"Yes, sir. Sorry, sir. Intractable? Recalcitrant? Immove-"

"Enough! The intractable foe, then. You are a walking thesaurus, Samadrad."

"Thank-you, sir."

"With this in mind, Tamulchinda resolved to give the fateful order. But before he could summon his Signals Subaltern, the Dreadlord General emerged from his command position within the _stedding_, casting lightnings and balls of fire before him, at which fearsome sight, the Sisters of the Battle Ajah boldly ventured forth to join the fray…"

The General swivelled in his saddle, spine stiff as a poker, and inclined his head politely to the Aes Sedai riding behind. Since he had mentioned them, good manners required that he acknowledge their presence. Tamasin Sedai returned the slight bow, a small smile on her lips. Barashelle Sedai simply stared, flatly. The General turned back. The younger Sister was a very pretty girl, he considered, but she should smile more often. She was starting to look as miserable as her Warder…

"…tactical use of the One Power being the key aspect of a field-engagement over which Tamulchinda has no control, he contented himself with observing from what he hoped would prove to be a safe distance until such time as-"

"Lord-General? Lord-General! She is _here!_"

It was Scout-Captain Naichin shouting these words whilst galloping his lathered horse through the formation of glowering Jaramide Plainsmen, who glared at him and levelled their wicked, tufted lances as though the Head Scout might yet prove to be a cunningly-disguised Myrddraal. The General eyed Naichin coldly as he reined his mount to a skidding stop, sending clouds of dust flying. He was a compact, solid man who, along with his Scouts, hailed from what was left of the Aramaelle border-garrisons. Naichin was swathed in a voluminous grey cloak over his dark green uniform, lined with rows of black buttons. Twin hilts projected from the crossed scabbards on his back. He wore a small silver bell in the braided end of his narrow beard, though he always removed it when he went on patrol. The General made a growling noise.

"Tamulchinda dislikes an interruption to the formation of his memoirs more than he dislikes poison, Naichin. What is the meaning of this hullabaloo?"

The Adjutant was halfway through writing 'hullabaloo' before he realised to his chagrin that the dictation had ceased… he looked up expectantly. Was _this_ the message they awaited? But Captain Naichin would have said so, if it was, and with a deal less excitability.

"Excuse me, Lord-General, but we have been looking for you everywhere! She's here! She just arrived!" Naichin was usually a steady man, who would go for days at a time without saying a word, keeping the trail-discipline whilst leading his scouts deep through enemy territory, an arrow nocked and every eye on the sky in case of ravens. He appeared unduly flustered at the moment, though.

"Who is here and has just arrived?" the General demanded, in his methodical way.

"The Amyrlin Seat!"

At this, there was a longish pause… Tamasin glanced at Barashelle, whose eyes were wide. Her full lips formed the words; '_the Mother?_' Tamasin frowned.

The General regarded Naichin with suspicion.

"If it transpires that you have been imbibing spirituous liquors whilst on duty, Captain-of-Scouts Irwyn Naichin, then Tamulchinda will be _most _displeased."

"Honestly, my Lord! Not a drop! The Amyrlin is really here! I cannot quite believe it myself, but she _is!_ She says she has come to see _you!_"

Suddenly, there seemed to be a great many mounted Guardsmen wearing the White Flame of Tar Valon over their armour in the vicinity of the General's main encampment. Heavy cavalry from the White Tower, at least a couple of Banners. He had not noticed them before. His mind had been elsewhere. On posterity, perhaps.

"A surprise visit from the Amyrlin Seat of the White Tower on the eve of a battle that could rival Tarmon Gai'don." The General's tone was even, but his dark eyes narrowed alarmingly. "Tamulchinda is _delighted_."

Tamasin Sedai trotted her horse up beside him. The General stared searchingly at her. Tamasin shook her head, her ageless face calm.

"Forgive my ignorance, General, but I have no more idea than you of why the Mother has favoured us with a visit," she murmured, "it seems _most _irregular – since the death of her predecessor, a major consensus from the Hall is required before the Amyrlin Seat may even _leave _Tar Valon." Rashima Kerenmosa had been the only holder of this office to ever perish on the field of conflict, while personally commanding the Tower Legions at the Battle of Maighande. The Hall of Sitters certainly had no intention of letting it happen again. So what was the Amyrlin doing _here_, of all places?

"Tamulchinda remembers the death of the Soldier Amyrlin. He was at Maighande."

"As was I. In fact, I do believe it was where we _met_."

"Of course it was, forgive Tamulchinda…"

"_Before_ the infirmary tent, I actually recollect seeing you on the battlefield itself. It was on the third day, or perhaps the fourth. You looked rather dashing as you galloped past, General." It had been more than forty years ago, but Tamasin had perfect recall of every face she had ever beheld. The rugged Captain leading the tattered remnants of his Banner in a desperate charge past the wounded Aes Sedai leaning against her dead horse _had_ managed to look dashing, despite the ragged shreds of his well-tailored uniform being mostly covered in dark, stinking Myrddraal blood. The General had a smaller moustache in those days, and less wrinkles, Tamasin recalled.

"Dashing, Tamasin Sedai? It has been a long time since Tamulchinda was able to _dash!_ That was before the ravages of time had their wicked way with him." Whereas Tamasin, round-faced and pale-eyed, with a thick, dark braid hanging over each shoulder, looked much the same as she had on the day the General woke in the camp bed next to hers, swathed in bloody bandages and feeling as though a herd of wild horses had run back and forth over him. Eventually, an exhausted-looking Yellow Sister wearing a blood-drenched apron over a blood-spattered dress had arrived to Heal Tamasin, before hurrying away again. Then, Tamasin had summoned the strength to Heal the General, in turn. There were worse ways to meet somebody.

Tamasin was toying with the short, bejewelled dagger that she always kept sheathed on her belt, tapping her fingernails against the ivory hilt. The General had known her long enough to recognise this as a sign of intense thought.

"Forgive me," Tamasin stated smoothly, looking up, "but I cannot be of aid to you regarding this conundrum. There is absolutely no reason for the Mother to be here, at least that I am aware of." She smiled. "I regret that I am but a lowly foot-soldier of the Battle Ajah, and not privy to the decisions of Amyrlin or Hall." The General gave her a sidelong glance. The Aes Sedai's calm smile did not waver.

Tamasin Sedai had a rather wry sense of humour, he had always considered, but he held far more respect for her than most Aes Sedai, for whom he had something of an aversion. She was one of the few people he had met in his long life who could occasionally beat him at stones, he knew that much. Captain Naichin was still waiting expectantly, soothingly patting the neck of his snorting mount.

The General sighed harshly. "Well, if the Amyrlin Seat has truly come to see Tamulchinda, then he had best go and pay his respects. Of course, you gave her the Pavilion, Naichin?" This was the largest tent, usually reserved for War Councils.

"Her servants and luggage are in the Pavilion, but the Amyrlin…"

"Yes, where is the Amyrlin Seat?"

"It was her idea, Lord-General! I do not know why, but she _insisted_-"

"Tamulchinda bitterly resents having to repeat himself. Immediately provide him with the exact location of the Amyrlin Seat, that he may call upon her!"

Naichin pointed to a column of smoke rising over a low hill to the north.

"Within the _stedding_, my Lord!"

"_What?_"

* * *

Scout-Captain Naichin watched as the General and his retinue rode away with some asperity, disappearing around the side of the low hill, riding towards the smoke. He was feeling at something of a loss. His best men were all in place, with relays of fast riders ready to bring final confirmation of what he had seen with his own eyes the day before. Not many in the Legion knew it for a fact, though there were plenty of rumours, but there was a Shadowspawn Army advancing south that outnumbered them by at least ten-to-one. Naichin had faced worse odds than that and lived, but it was an unwise man who thought his luck would last him forever. His scouts would bring confirmation soon, he was sure, and there was little to do between then and now but wait. So, finding himself with time on his hands, Naichin went to watch the Darkfriends being executed.

The Legion carried a mobile gallows atop a long cart that needed four oxen to pull it. The long beam had room for a half-dozen nooses at a time, all of which were currently occupied. There were six men standing in a row, wrists bound behind them, nooses snug about their necks, taught ropes stretching up to the beam above. The Darkfriends barely looked human anymore. They were clad in filthy rags and furs, their hair stiffened with mud or dried-blood, twisted into spikes or roughly shaved off at the sides to make a long crest. Their dull eyes stared blankly from bearded, scarred faces, often with the sigil of some Trolloc Band tattooed crudely on cheek or forehead. Once, the Darkfriend Armies had worn uniforms, maintained a semblance of discipline beneath their Dreadlord Generals, but by the final years of the Wars, these dregs were all that were left. Savage beasts who had long ago lost what little shred remained of their humanity.

Assembled before the gallows-cart stood a large crowd of assorted soldiery and camp-followers. To one side were several wagons, piled high with Darkfriend corpses, waiting to take their full loads to the large communal pit where they would join their brethren being brought from the _stedding_. The wagon-drivers had thrown stones at the circling crows and ravens at first, but by now had ceased to bother. Carrion-birds of all kinds clustered over the wagons, snapping up titbits.

Two people shared the gallows platform with the condemned Darkfriends. The Aelgari Knight-Inquisitor presided, dark eyes glittering fanatically in a thin, angular face, his cruel mouth bordered by a narrow beard. He had removed the armour he had worn for the morning's charge and stood resplendent in the flowing, white robes of his office. Turning away from the watching crowd, he revealed a large, blood-red design on the back of his robe – a seven-spoked wheel. In a loud and somewhat perfunctory voice, he addressed the Darkfriends, reciting the same words he had already uttered several times, that he would be required to utter several more.

"You stand guilty of communing with the Shadow and betraying the Light. For what you have done there can be no mercy, no forgiveness. May the Divine Creator burn your Souls from the Age Lace and consign you to Endless Night."

The Inquisitor nodded to the Hangman, who jerked a final noose taught, gave the last Darkfriend in the line a pat on the shoulder of false commiseration and stepped neatly forward. He was a dexterous fellow, and very good at what he did. A black silken mask covered the upper part of his face, he wore a white silk shirt tucked into dark, leather britches. His stockings were also white silk and his polished black shoes bore large, intricately-worked silver buckles, matching that on his belt. His hair was long and pure white (though not through age), his skin very pale. The eyes that stared malevolently from the holes in the mask were a pinkish-red in hue!

Some said that the Hangman (no-one knew his name or if, indeed, he had one) was a Darkfriend himself, though he seemed to get on well enough with the Aelgari, who had brought him with them, in addition to the mobile gallows of his own invention. There were others who whispered that the Hangman was actually something _worse_ than a Friend of the Dark – he was Aridholi! Though few remnants of that dead Nation survived, there were still some who, more than two hundred years after its unlamented demise, carried a measure of its blood. The Hangman seemed a likely contender for this dubious honour, and certainly exuded every bit of the cruelty and arrogance for which the people of Aridhol had been famed.

The Hangman took a quick step over to a large lever and tugged it firmly. Cunningly-designed balances shifted and the heavy beam above swung higher, exchanging position with a counterweight beam, stretching the ropes, tightening the nooses and hoisting the Darkfriends a pace upwards. No quick drop and snapped neck for them! Six pairs of dirty, bare feet lifted from rough, soiled boards, and began to kick. The crowd cheered. The Hangman's pale lips writhed in a cold, sneering smirk and he bowed gracefully, like a dancing-master.

Behind the gallows, the remaining Darkfriends awaited their turn, sitting cross-legged on the ground, hands tied behind their backs. They were surrounded by men of the Aelgari Cavalry Banner, a company of the Knights of Condaris facing inwards, their large, chevron-shaped shields grounded to make an inescapable circular wall around the condemned, a wall decorated with the red wheel and studded with levelled spears. The Knights were tall men in plate armour beneath red tabards, watching the Darkfriends with cold eyes. Their pale cloaks, emblazoned with the crimson, seven-spoked wheel, flapped in the breeze while they remained stock-still.

Naichin scowled. He did not care for southerners in general, but these Aelgari Knights particularly grated on him. There were never very many of them, for one thing, Aelgar had rarely made the kind of contribution to the Wars that other Nations had. As the furthest Nation from the Blight, it had always primarily ensured the security of its own borders, though if hit with a particularly bad incursion, never failed to stridently demand the aid of its fellow Nations of the Compact…

In all fairness, the Knights were well-trained and disciplined, could usually be found in the thick of the fighting – but their true vocation seemed to be the rooting-out and execution of Darkfriends. Not a bad thing in itself, but their methods for finding the truth left much to be desired. Not all of their victims may have necessarily sworn their souls to the Shadow, regardless of confessing to doing so under torture. There were dark rumours of some of the things these Knights and their Inquisitors had done, in the name of the Light. But it was useful to have a Banner of them with the Legion, along with their rather disconcerting Hangman, if only to spare men who had no stomach for mass-killing from a duty such as this. Since joining the Legion, their Knight-Captain had simply _always_ volunteered his men for execution duty until the role was permanently accorded them – it seemed they actually _wanted_ to do this!

The last Darkfriend ceased his kicking and hung still, his scarred face suffused with blood, his tongue projecting from between broken, yellow teeth. As the wagon-drivers removed the corpses, the Hangman swiftly tidied his nooses then, whilst turning a crank to reset the counterweight, whistled sharply between his teeth. On cue, two Knights of Condaris took a pace back and another to each side, making a gap in the shield-wall behind the gallows, through which six more Knights, without spears or shields, entered the circle. Each seized an exhausted, dispirited Darkfriend by the hair and dragged him to his feet. Most had consigned themselves to death, but a few put up a struggle.

A big Darkfriend, filthy beard arranged into two forks, snarled and rammed his shoulder into a Knight. Without pause, the Knight pulled a heavy dagger from his belt and, still gripping the Darkfriend by the hair, proceeded to stab him repeatedly in the side. As the blade went in and out, the Knight's blank expression did not change, no anger or hatred or even enjoyment, he might have been boning a chicken for the pot! He continued to stab even after the Darkfriend had ceased struggling, ceased breathing, then carelessly let the limp, dirty corpse drop to the ground and seized another prisoner, following his comrades and their less troublesome charges to the gallows, where the empty nooses were waiting.

The two shield Knights stepped back into place beside their fellows, a circle of cold eyes fixed on the remaining Darkfriends. There were barely a hundred left of those who had thrown down their weapons and run from the _stedding _to surrender. Not many had survived the wrath of the Ogier long enough to do so. Some had taken their own lives rather than face the onslaught.

"You stand guilty of communing with the Shadow and betraying the Light…"

Naichin shook his head and pushed through the throng, ignoring the next drop. Not that it _was_ a drop, exactly. But if you had seen one, you had seen them all. And there were no speeches from these brutes, no last-moment prayers to the Creator or pleas for redemption or anything remotely entertaining – they had already given themselves up to death. They would not even have surrendered, beasts like this rarely did, had it not been for the Ogier…

Naichin paused, staring. There actually _were_ some of the Builders here! Five huge, armoured figures stood off to one side, leaning on their long-axes and heavy war-hammers, staring at the gallows with massive, cold eyes, their tufted ears lying flat against their helmets. None of the Alantin Guard had ever attended an execution before to his knowledge, normally regarding the killing of a human by another human as an object of sadness, to be avoided. But this time was perhaps different. While the majority of the murder had been done by Myrddraal and Trollocs, doubtless some of these surviving Darkfriends had the blood of Ogier on their hands. In their hair also, for all he knew. And, which was worse, they had been directly responsible for the destruction of a grove of Great Trees, the defilement of a _stedding_.

The murder, the Ogier might have brought themselves to forgive, but the sacrilege, never. So they watched the Darkfriends hang, implacable faces set like stone. The solemn sight made even Naichin, who had killed his first Trolloc at the age of fourteen and fought the Shadowspawn hordes fiercely ever since, feel ashamed to be human. To his knowledge, no Builder had ever turned to the Shadow…

The Ogier were not the only vengeful witnesses. When Darkfriend prisoners were given the final justice, there were always far more archers present than pike or cavalrymen. Many of these bowmen were of a dead Nation that had reputedly been betrayed by Friends of the Dark, and they took a bleak satisfaction in the executions.

Archery Banners often comprised merely of those able to reliably hit their target at one hundred paces. But the General always endeavoured to secure the best men available for his Legion. The word would go out, and certain individuals from far-flung communities-in-exile would journey to his camp, their long bow-staves on their backs, silently assembling beneath his standard. It did not matter that he was a Borderlander and not of their blood. Often, their fathers, even grandfathers, had served under General Tamulchinda – they had heard the stories, knew he would take them to the fighting and lead them well. That was enough. The end result was that there was a preponderance of Manetherener archers in the Legion.

Not that there _was_ a Manetheren anymore, but enough men survived who carried its blood (and carried the deadly yew longbow also) to provide the core of the Legion's Archery Banner. Some even still wore the tattered badges passed down from father to son for nearly two-hundred years – the Red Fingers emblem. It was a proud symbol that they were directly descended from one of a fabled band of heroes. The foot-archers of the Red Hand had long-ago adopted a singular sigil to distinguish them from the cavalry and pike of this legendary Band.

In Manetheren's many wars with the Kingdom of Safer, prior to the signing of the Compact, it had been a cruel practice of the Saferi to cut the first two fingers from the drawing-hand of captured Manetherener archers, rendering them harmless. The Manetheren custom of waving these same two fingers at their traditional enemy in defiance had grown from this, and the faded badges on the rough country-clothing of the archers depicted the back of a red hand, the first two fingers raised in a 'v'-shape.

None of these men had ever seen Manetheren, it existed only as a legend to them, but their mothers had raised them to fight for its honour, or at least the memory of its honour, while their fathers had taught them the use of the longbow. They had their hatred for the Shadow to give them a strength that made up for their small numbers. Not all were of true Manetheren stock, but the Wars had created many young, orphaned recruits whose new family had become whichever Banner they joined. These lads had been raised in the military traditions of Manetheren, and wherever born, each used the same, massive bow.

The rest of the soldiers watched closely enough, gave a rousing cheer when the last Darkfriend ceased his kicking, but their hearts were not in it, their minds elsewhere. Naichin frowned. When a man had known nothing but war for his entire life, the prospect of it finally ending could do strange things to him. It could give him hope, for something else. A wife, children, a trade that did not require killing… The mood in the air was triumphant. Naichin hoped that it was not premature.

Many times in the Wars, ultimate victory had seemed within their grasp. His father had told him of the jubilation after Maighande, tempered by grief at the death of the Soldier Amyrlin… but while that costly victory had driven a stake through the heart of the Shadowspawn menace, like a Myrddraal, it took a long time for it to die.

All knew that in a line extending from the Spine of the World to the Aryth Ocean, the Legions were sweeping north, driving the last Shadowspawn back into the Blight. Naichin was one of the few who knew that above their position, two of these Legions had been destroyed. He had seen the last survivors massacred himself, a shrinking knot of blue-uniformed cavalrymen dismounted amidst a sea of howling Trollocs. Only a fast horse and a lot of luck had prevented him joining them! As such, he knew that the horde of Shadowspawn responsible was on its way south. Directly towards them.

On a hillock above, a group of Captains and Subalterns had broached a barrel of ale. Naichin made his way up through the crowd – Tower Guards were beginning to mingle with the Legion-men, he noticed – and accepted a brimming tankard from Captain Harvole who, as usual, was puffing extravagantly on his filthy clay pipe.

"Odd news about the Amyrlin," Harvole drawled through the gouts of smoke. "Turning up like that, out of the blue. Unexpected, and so forth…"

"Indeed," agreed Naichin, blowing the foam off the top of his ale. "But I counted two Banners of Tar Valon's finest heavy-cavalry ride into camp with the Mother. They should come in handy, when the hammer comes down on us."

"_If_ they're planning on staying for the fight," muttered Harvole, "the Tower Guard go where the Amyrlin says, they fight at her command, not the General's."

Naichin was good at noticing things, a useful attribute for a scout. He noticed something now. "Well, there's one of them right behind you, Harvole. Why don't you ask him if he'll be joining us for the slaughter?"

"There is? Where?"

"On your blind-side, man, turn the _other_ way! A Guard Captain by the looks of it, he's over there, standing next to old Dai…"

Harvole turned the other way, his eye focusing on a tall, wide-shouldered man wearing a tabard emblazoned with the White Flame belted over shining scale armour, leaning on a sheathed broadsword. He stood beside Captain Buie of the Archery Banner. The two seemed to know each other, they were deep in animated conversation. As they approached, Naichin and Harvole caught the tail-end of it.

"…I'm telling you, Dai, slowly but surely, folk are going back. Word gets around. Why, they say _grass_ is growing again between the rivers, that there's good grazing land to be had where it was all just scorched earth in our grandfather's day…" This was the Tower Captain, his lean, scarred face set and intent, his eyes fixed on Dai Buie. He spoke with the same burring accent as the Manetherener.

The old Captain of Archers leaned heavily on the long yew stave that he was never without, an unstrung long-bow. Naturally, a frayed badge depicting the Red Fingers emblem decorated his drab woollen coat. He tilted his head to one side, sceptically. "Really, Hal," he muttered, "I thought you were too old to believe in faery stories. Seems I was wrong. The homeland of the mountain river is dead and dust, and there's an end to it." Dai Buie glanced at the Scout and Pike Captains. "Ah, so the Trollocs haven't put you two in their cookpots yet," he observed, laconically.

Harvole grinned. "I'd give them the most beastly belly-ache if they did, and serve them right!" Up close, Naichin noticed that the Guard Captain, though younger, looked much akin to Dai, with the same long jaw and dark, hooded eyes.

Dai indicated his companion. "This is my cousin, Hal Buie. Hal, this is Naichin, a useful fellow, and Harvole, who you probably shouldn't dice with!"

Hal clasped hands politely with his fellow Captains. "As you can see, I am no lowly archer like poor old cousin Dai here, but a noble armsman of the White Tower," he confided, unnecessarily.

"Ah, young Hal could never so much as hit the door of a barn at fifty paces, so he had to give his bow to one of the lads who knew how to use it and drag himself off to Tar Valon instead!" Dai grinned toothlessly. Naichin had rarely seen the dour old Captain-of-Archers in so good a mood – he had not even known the man _had_ any family!

Hal Buie pretended to be incensed. "String that walking staff of yours, old fellow, and point-out a dangling Darkfriend – I'll put an arrow in whichever eye you choose, from right here!" It was nearly two hundred paces to the gallows, but Naichin expected that Hal could live up to his boast. It would be an easy shot for a Manetherener, even one who seemed more at home with a broadsword.

Harvole grinned at the idea. "Master Hangman will be upset if you start using his clients for target practice! He might put the curse of Shadow's Waiting on you!"

Dai spat. "_That_ for him… bloody prancing albino! Those burning goat-kissers down there don't deserve a quick death, anyhow. An arrow's a mercy, let them kick awhile instead." He fixed dark eyes on his cousin. "So, you're going back there, when all this is over? Because of a few whispers in the wind?"

Hal pulled a crumpled letter from his belt pouch and waved it under Dai's nose. "_There's_ your whispers – read for yourself, if you don't trust the word of your own kin! It's from Aunt Nem, she gave it to a peddler – took her letter close on a year to reach the Tower, but she says she's taken the children and grandchildren and gone back to the mountain-home!"

"Aunt Nem's _still alive?_ Well burn-me, that woman would survive the bloody Breaking! Give it here!" Dai eagerly grabbed the letter from Hal's hand.

"She said I should spread the word to the rest of the Buies, or to any of the Congars or Coplins, if I bump into them either... says there are near twenty families a-building a village right where the old King fell – Aemon's Field, they're calling it!"

Dai Buie ignored his cousin, smoothed-out the letter and began to read avidly. "Har!" he exclaimed, after a moment, "listen to this!"

"I've read it, Dai, only about fifty times…"

Dai Buie ignored his cousin. "Nem writes; 'last winter was very trying, lions and wolves and bears-' "

"Oh my!"

"Shut-up, Hal! She writes, uh, '…wolves and bears took half the flock, and a lion ate-up cousin Alfi, but the Light willing, we'll survive…' " Dai looked up and caught Hal's eye expectantly. They loudly finished the sentence in unison;

" '…and the Light unwilling, we'll _still_ bloody survive!' "

Cackling, Dai returned to the letter. Another rousing cheer as six more struggling Darkfriends were hoisted into the air. Naichin glanced at Harvole in bemusement. He felt as though they had intruded on some sort of peculiar Manetheren custom... _and what in the world were Congars and Coplins, anyway?_

Hal Buie noticed and turned to them apologetically. "Excuse-us," he explained, "Village Council business…"

* * *

A pall of greyish smoke still hung heavy over the _stedding_, which looked much as though it had been ravaged by the cruel Fire-Giants of Legend. Every tree had been felled, from ancient oaks and gnarled yews to the slimmest birch or slender willow. Even the well-tended lawns and flowerbeds had been seared and defiled. Only a few small blossoms had been overlooked by those who had rampaged here.

The Knight-Inquisitor had been assiduous with his questioning of Darkfriend prisoners, if the screams echoing from his tent were any indication. It had been the Dreadlord's decision, apparently. He had moved the advance guard further south than he was meant to, surrounding and besieging the _stedding_ while the main force of Shadowspawn was otherwise engaged with annihilating the Legions to the north.

The Ogier had fought for the Light bravely throughout the Wars, opposing the Dark One as fervently as had the armies of Manetheren – even though all seemed lost and the last of his kind were being hunted-down by the Red Ajah, the Dreadlord intended to punish the Ogier, to give them a savage example of the penalty for opposing the Shadow. He would do what had been done at no other point in the Trolloc Wars – he would destroy an entire _stedding_ and put its population to the sword. Perhaps the next time Ba'alzamon sent his hordes forth from the Blight, the Ogier would remember (they had long memories, after all) and remain neutral.

The Grove at the centre had received particularly harsh treatment. The Darkfriends had not been able to fell the Great Trees with ordinary methods, no mere axe-work could do the job, no wood-saw in existence was long enough to span such a trunk. So, they had resorted to piling huge stacks of timber about the boles and firing it, scorching and weakening the immense trees at the base until they fell, toppled by their own great weight. The smaller groves and orchards had been chopped-up for fire-wood, but the Great Trees still lay where they had fallen.

The General and his Adjutant rode up a broad avenue created by two enormous, felled trunks lying parallel, rising wall-like to either side, his Bannerman and a dozen Lancers of his Honour Guard riding around them. The rest had been sent to the north border of the _stedding_, to join the other men of Jaramide.

The Aes Sedai walked their horses slowly, further back – the General was not particularly anxious to meet the Amyrlin, but they seemed positively reluctant! Though perhaps it was more the place, the Sisters usually preferred to avoid the aura of a _stedding_, which rendered them as powerless as anyone else.

Up ahead, the miners of the Sapper's Banner were hard at work, digging fortifications. The General nodded approvingly. The sappers had earlier begun to dismantle the barricades of split logs behind which the Darkfriends had made their last stand. Not that it had done them much good – the Alantin Guard had simply formed themselves into an armoured wedge and swept through the fortified positions like a knife through butter, killing everything in their path, leaving nothing in their tracks that lived. The General had indicated strong displeasure to his Captain-of-Sappers and the barricades had quickly been replaced. And reinforced.

"Put them back up!" the General had shouted. "_They_ used them – so can we!"

More sappers were engaged in other activities. Large, roughly-fenced corals were being built, in which several thousand horses could be accommodated. An earth-and-wood fort was being raised, a final position for surviving defenders to fall back to. Sharpened wooden stakes were being cut and planted along the length of the _stedding's_ border. Their less fortunate fellows were about a less pleasant task, leading away teams of carthorses dragging sleds stacked with dismembered Darkfriend corpses. They would be unceremoniously tipped into the same deep pit as that in which those who had met with the Hangman were being interred. A pit that lay well outside the borders of the _stedding_.

Elder Vachar had insisted that the Darkfriends, remorselessly hunted-down and slaughtered by his Guard, be buried well outside the hallowed ground. And when an Ogier insisted on something, as rarely as it occurred, then that was that.

Not only the sappers were busy. To the north, the Jaramide Lancers were engaged in a task for which they were culturally suited, the construction of a long mound of earth, such as sporadically broke the flat plains of their homeland. It was a barrow, like those the General's ancestors lay within, surrounded by the weapons and skulls of defeated enemies. The Alantin Guard were facing the earth with flat stones, making the mound into an enormous cairn. The remains of nearly three thousand Ogier men were buried beneath. As well as one Waygate.

The avenue came to an eventual end, between the shattered stumps of the two Great Trees. The smoke hung heavier here. And out of it stepped a slim, elegant girl, holding a bouquet of flowers. She did not notice the approaching riders at first, bending gracefully to pick a bedraggled blossom from where it sprouted tenuously amongst the shattered scraps of bark and scorched foliage that floored the ruined Grove. Her skin was translucently pale, her hair very dark and cut short, curled about the nape of her slender neck. She wore a white dress, banded with colour at the hem, and a gold ring flashed on her finger as she raised the flower to sniff it. Clearly, she was an Accepted of the White Tower, an Aes Sedai's apprentice… but what was she doing in a ruined _stedding_, picking flowers of all things?

The General glanced to either side, but could make out little through the smoke or past the bulk of the massive felled trees. Where was the Amyrlin? What was she even _doing_ here? This was an unlooked-for complication. And he did not care for complications.

The girl glanced up and noticed the riders, her demeanour haughty. A small, cut sapphire hung from a web of tiny silver chains woven into her hair, dangling against her forehead. Her dark eyes swept coolly over them… and Lord Samadrad gasped loudly! The General watched curiously as his Adjutant, pale face flushed with consternation, slipped out of the saddle and went down on one knee, head bowed low. He had rarely seen the formal, reserved Lord Samadrad behave quite so impulsively… except on certain Feast Days, of course. These Almoreni were a strange lot! The girl glided forward and frowned down at his Adjutant.

"Highness!" he blurted, "Princess Byanca – I did not know that you-"

"Get up, Lord Samadrad," hissed Byanca su Talloriandred, daughter of the Sun-King of Almoren, "we do not stand in the Shining Court – I am merely an Accepted of the White Tower, present as attendant to the Amyrlin and _not _as your Heir-Apparent!" Her voice rang like delicate bells as she spoke, with equal measures of precision and derision.

"Yes Highness, forgive me." Samadrad rose to his feet, still blushing.

Princess Byanca lowered her eyes and sniffed. "You have mud on your knee, Lord Samadrad," she pointed-out, then added, as an afterthought, "oh, and if you_ ever_ tell Father that I was _here_ and not safely cloistered in the Tower where he _thinks_ I am, then when I am Sun-Queen I shall send you over the Dragonwall to conquer the Aiel savages, all on your own!" Samadrad gulped. His Princess relented. "Well, that _is_ a little harsh… perhaps I shall give you a Legion or two to take with you… but no-one who will be missed!"

The General croaked with laughter, raven-like. The Princess regarded him coolly, then inclined her head a little. The General leant forward in the saddle, performing a bow worthy of a courtier, then sat up straight as a lance, tugging at his moustaches. The Princess put one hand on her hip, the other raising the bouquet of bedraggled blossoms to her nose, and said the first thing that came into her head.

"I like your hat."

The General kicked Tsorovan sharply in the side and the huge, war-trained stallion grunted a little, then advanced a shaggy fore-leg, lowering his massive head and bowing also. The Princess laughed and would have clapped her hands together, had she not been holding the flowers.

"You must be the General. Father told me stories about you…"

"Indeed, Princess," the General stated. His eyes crinkled at the corners a little. "Tamulchinda served alongside your father at the raising of the fifth siege of Tar Valon, and generously loaned a prized garment during a heavy thunder-storm… perhaps the next time you see the Sun-King, you might remind him that Tamulchinda wishes his best oiled-satin rain-cape returned – preferably, freshly-laundered?"

The Princess blinked, then noticed another surviving flower at her feet, stooping to pick it. "Father always forgets to return books to the Great Library also," she muttered distractedly, "they have to send someone to collect them all every now and then." She fixed an imperious gaze on the General. "I will tell him though, if you think it will do any good. I suppose that you are here to see the Mother?"

"That we are, child." Tamasin had caught-up, trailed by Barashelle and the four Warders. "Perhaps if you are done with your flower-gathering, you would consent to lead us to her?"

Princess Byanca stared, then bobbed her head, holding the bouquet self-consciously in front of her with both hands. "Of course, Tamasin Sedai," she murmured, then, glancing at the younger Aes Sedai, "Barashelle… Sedai."

Barashelle sneered at the bouquet, then frowned at the Princess, whose eyes had moved to Anselan. A sight of his stern, rather terrifying features, and she shivered theatrically. The story of what had happened had been legendary in the novice quarters, when she first came to the Tower. And Barashelle, when not up to her elbows in washing-up, had a vicious temper with slow learners… the novices had all done their best to avoid the older Accepted's classes. Not always successfully.

"Bannerman to me!" shouted the General, even though the fellow was just behind him. The old plainsman holding the Tamulchinda House-Standard walked his horse forward, the muzzle of the wolfskin draped over his bare shoulders falling down across his brow, giving him a somewhat wolf-like appearance. Not that wolves rode horses, of course. "The Honour Guard will wait here until Tamulchinda returns. They may amuse themselves as they see fit."

The Bannerman growled, adding considerably to the perceived wolfishness. "Memesh does not find this place _amusing_," he muttered darkly, before turning and unnecessarily bellowing, in more military tones; "Lancers will be at attention! Lancers will stand ready to dismount! Dis…_mount!_" The plainsmen slid smoothly down from their saddles. The Bannerman made no motion to do likewise, just pointed at where the horses were to be picketed and sat his saddle, the long pole of the Standard propped against his stirrup. The General scowled at his Bannerman.

"Tamulchinda takes it that Memesh is coming also?" He did not particularly want the Amyrlin to see the man. While it was traditional for a Bannerman of Jaramide to wear a wolf-skin, it was ideally supposed to be _clean_, and worn _over_ some kind of a uniform! In addition to some threadbare britches, the rather dirty article in question was the only thing Memesh had seen fit to clothe himself with that morning! Even though it was a chill day… but his Bannerman had as little regard for cold as he did for convention or etiquette.

The Bannerman's almond eyes flicked toward his General, muscles writhing beneath the faded tattoos that swirled over his wizened face. "Is the Hetman to meet the Flame-Watcher _without_ his Totem Flag?" he whined, loudly. "Is the House of the Royal Wolverine, Rampant-in-Splendour, to be so dishonoured? And good Memesh held to account for abandoning his sacred post, his sworn duty? Is-"

"Silence, curse-you! Very well... Memesh _may_ attend Tamulchinda – but must behave! And _do_ try not to scare anyone!" Really, the man was insufferable. Unfortunately, Memesh did not view the General as just that – a General. Rather, his liege-lord was 'the Hetman', an ancient title no longer used except among the more backward tribes of the Plain, of which his Bannerman was a prime example. A Hetman was seen as a sort of first-among-equals. Who could be nagged-at and complained-to! Memesh had been riding with him for years, ever since Maighande, the embarrassing old Bannerman had proved impossible to get rid of…

"And stop calling Tamulchinda that," the General hissed, as he walked his horse past, "you know perfectly well that the Queen stole Tamulchinda's land and parcelled it out to her slimy cousins – he is _not _your liege-lord any more!" Memesh stared up through the smoke at where the sky presumably was, pretending that he could not hear his Hetman speak.

The Princess had followed this exchange with some confusion. Now, she turned smoothly, gesturing back into the smoke as though showing honoured guests through one of her father's many palaces. "The Amyrlin Seat awaits you," she announced, portentously, "if you would all care to ride this way…"

* * *

"What has been done here is an _atrocity_," Elder Vachar rumbled, "there will be talk of this before the Great Stump, mark my words. There are those (though not myself, clearly) who will think it best to stay out of human affairs from now on."

"It is always the final days of a War that see the worst atrocities committed."

The Amyrlin Seat's voice was high and reedy with age. The Ogier Elder did not respond. Their surroundings spoke of war's horror better than ever he could.

They were at the heart of the Grove, equidistant between the enormous, shattered stumps of five of the Great Trees. In fact, they were upon a stump themselves, but unlike the others, it was old and weathered, its ringed, circular surface smooth as the dance floor of a ballroom, lovingly polished by generations of Ogier. A walled coping was built around it, beautifully carved with vines, broken by numerous steps and ramps. The Stump had been where those of this _stedding _had met to speak and be heard for more than a thousand years. No longer.

The huge, armoured Ogier crouched easily, the long handle of his war-axe, its broad blade engraved with brambles and thorns, propped against a massive shoulder. This posture brought his great, shaggy head level with that of the Amyrlin, though she still sat in the horse-litter, raised a pace from the ground by the pair of placid geldings standing patiently between the shafts that projected from either end of the canopied, wooden compartment. A Warder held the lead-reins, two more stood to either side, and a dozen additional Gaidin surrounded them in a loose cordon, hidden in the drifting smoke, their fancloth cloaks rendering them near-invisible in the thick haze.

Cheviz drifted soundlessly forward, a dusty, thick-glassed bottle with a yellowed, parchment label cradled carefully in his white-gloved hands. He bowed.

"More wine, Mother? Honoured Elder?"

The Amyrlin declined, the Elder did not.

"Thank-you, Servitor Cheviz. This glass _is_ rather small…"

It was the largest crystal tumbler Cheviz had been able to find at short-notice, but still looked like a thimble gripped delicately between the Ogier's thick fingers. Cheviz refilled it carefully, without spilling so much as a drop. The Elder raised the glass, swirling the liquid inside and inhaling the delicate aroma, his broad nose twitching. He took a careful Ogier-sized sip, amounting to a Human-sized gulp. He rolled the wine around on his tongue, swallowed, and nodded appreciatively.

"I did not know there were any bottles of this vintage left," he mumbled. Vachar was young for an Elder, and looked younger, as he kept his eyebrows and beard trimmed shorter than usual, for convenience. A custom of the Alantin Guard. The other Elders of Stedding Shangtai all topped him by at least a hundred years in age, but none of them had been born when this wine was laid-down either.

"This is the last of the Tamborwyn, Elder Vachar," Cheviz responded smoothly, not troubling to mention that the Tamborwyn vinyards had been burned to ashes three hundred years ago. Cheviz did not believe in stating the obvious. He bowed again to the Amyrlin and drifted soundlessly back to his position beside the hindmost litter-horse. He had set up a small folding table there, lined with trays and glasses, though the other refreshments he had provided went untouched.

A tall Warder materialised from the smoky mist. "The General approaches, Mother," he stated, before disappearing back into the haze.

Elder Vachar drank the last of his wine and rose, towering over the litter. Cheviz reappeared at his side with a silver tray, on which the Ogier carefully placed the empty glass, before bowing his head to the ancient Amyrlin behind the curtains.

"You will wish to be alone with the General," he rumbled, "so I will take my leave of you, Watcher of the Seals." The Amyrlin inclined her head gracefully, her dark silhouette shifting behind the thin damask.

"Words are insufficient to express my sorrow and anger at what has occurred," she murmured, "but perhaps _deeds_ may compensate." Her voice grew colder. "When the last Shadowspawn is slain, the last Dreadlord hunted-down and destroyed."

"And the last Friend of the Dark suffocated with a hempen noose?" Elder Vachar shook his head sadly. "I sent five of my Guard to witness this 'hanging' that the humans do to one another. They report that after observing it, their feelings of anger remain unchanged. Destruction cannot be overcome by simply destroying the destroyers. When these Wars are done, if I yet live, then I shall be glad to hang-up the axe with which I have destroyed so many lives and seek instead to _create_ something."

The Ogier Elder blinked his large eyes, his ears twitching. "That reminds me…" He reached thick fingers into his belt pouch and drew out a large wooden bowl, the grain of the fine silvery wood forming intricate spirals about the edge, interspersed with black whorls. He extended the item toward the litter and pale hands reached out from between the curtains to take it, turning the bowl over, slender fingers running along the smooth edges. "Young Halor found a birch that yet survived, though much scorched – he Sang the last of its dying essence into this bowl for you. We wanted you to have some remnant of this _stedding_…"

_We wanted you to have a__ reminder_...

The Ogier Elder maintained a placid expression, but his meaning was clear. The dark, burned streaks in the wood were deliberately arranged to mar the beauty of the grain. It was an exquisite, yet disturbing piece.

"It is an exquisite piece," stated the Amyrlin smoothly. "It shall have an honoured place in the Tower, as will the recorded history of this _stedding_, in our Library. I thank you, Elder Vachar. Please thank Halor on my behalf."

The Ogier Elder took a last glance around the ruined grove and shook his head slowly, his ears flattening against the side of his skull. "I will come here nevermore," he growled, darkly. "No Ogier shall. This is a place of _death_, now." Without another word, Elder Vachar turned and strode away across the flat surface of the Stump. The Amyrlin watched him go until the haze swallowed him up.

"Mother?" An Accepted stood at the other side of the litter, a knot of nine riders waiting behind her, one of them (a rather barbaric-looking fellow) holding a long banner that appeared to display a dancing dog wearing a crown. It looked a little like the sign hanging above a tavern door. "Mother, you have supplicants…"

It was the young Princess again, the young Dreamer. It seemed that she had found her flowers… and had also managed to find the General. The Amyrlin watched as he dismounted, spry as ever. And still wearing one of those ridiculous gaudy uniforms! A young man could be forgiven for strutting like a foolish peacock in his finery - the ancient Amyrlin was as partial to a well-dressed fellow as the next woman - but the General should know better at his age! Why, he must be nearly eighty years old! The man had retired several times, but some emergency always arose to call him away from his memoirs, to send him out into the field with a handful of men, to do what he did best. He wouldn't have had it any other way, of course…

"Lord-General Tamulchinda," whispered the Amyrlin Seat. "It is good to see you again. Well that we can meet and speak, here at the End."

* * *

The General stood by the folding table, eating a delicate pastry with some difficulty (it kept getting caught in his moustaches) and eyeing Cheviz with open suspicion. The tall, solemn fellow with the long face did not seem to have noticed… though of course, he had. _Nothing_ escaped the attention of his accursed manservant, not even grey men! Lord Samadrad was seated on a log, holding a half-eaten cucumber sandwich in one hand and his pen in the other, making annotations to the manuscript propped on his knees. Memesh loitered in the background, muttering to himself occasionally, leaning on his banner-pole and holding the reins of their horses.

The Amyrlin was still closeted in her litter, in conference with her Aes Sedai. Tamasin was speaking. The General strained his ears, but could hear nothing, even though they were only a few spans away. Some kind of a warding, no doubt. Which was odd, since such weaves should be impossible here, in a _stedding_… but he knew little enough of the One Power, and wished he knew less.

"…and so the Dreadlord – it was Eli Mandaelor, by the way – split his flows, attacking strongly so that neither of us could shield him. It was all we could do to protect ourselves and our Warders." Tamasin's tone was matter-of-fact, she could have been describing a horse-race. "Fortunately, after this initial assault the Dreadlord's madness became quite severe, perhaps as a result of seizing the Source after days spent cut-off from it within the _stedding_? He began to lash out wildly, bringing fire and death down upon his own men. Barashelle used the Mirror of Mists, and was able to distract the Dreadlord long enough for my Warders and I to move in closer, and then…" Tamasin raised her hands. "What else is there to say? He was dealt with." She glanced at Barashelle. "Would you care to add anything?"

Barashelle coloured and lowered her eyes. She would rather the Amyrlin Seat was not reminded of her existence. Much rather. The Amyrlin ignored this.

"Mandaelor, you say? Eli Mandaelor?" Tamasin nodded.

"Yes Mother, I recognised him, though his features had changed, somewhat."

"He did not have a nose." Barashelle flinched beneath the reproving gazes of the Amyrlin and Tamasin both, and looked down again. "Well, he did not," she muttered, "it had quite rotted from his face... he wore a scarf to cover the holes."

Tamasin cleared her throat. "Barashelle handled herself well, Mother. She has faced her first Dreadlord, no easy ordeal. Barashelle approaches expiation for her transgression. She will be a true Sister of the Battle Ajah."

Barashelle could not mask her surprise quickly enough, directing a shocked glance at Tamasin, who eyed her coolly until the younger Sister looked away.

"In time." Tamasin's voice was cold. It would not do to let unaccustomed praise go to the girl's head.

The Amyrlin did not seem to have noticed. "Eli Mandaelor," she repeated, softly, "one more name to cross-off." Her Keeper had compiled long lists garnered from her many agents, details of every Dreadlord, set in order of importance. Naturally, at the top of the list were those traitorous Sisters of the Black Ajah whose crimes had shamed the Tower – there would be no mercy for them, when caught.

At the bottom of the list were those poor fools who had joined the Shadow rather than face gentling – the Red Ajah was currently taking care of that problem. Indeed, they seemed to regard it as a jealously-guarded prerogative.

Eli Mandaelor's name had appeared somewhere in the middle of these lists. The details had included his appearance, habits and place of birth. Strange that so many male channellers hailed from Fel Moreina, formerly Aren Mador, protected by the Guardian, an enormous _ter'angreal _that shielded the city from the One Power. Or perhaps, not so strange. In any case, Mandaelor had been a Friend of the Dark since the age of fifteen, and had already joined their armies before he learned he could channel, unlike the more famous male channellers who came from the Lake City, such as Raolin Darksbane… or…

The Amyrlin glanced at the General, standing off to one side, next to his distinguished-looking manservant. He had stopped trying to eavesdrop through the Ward and was currently scowling at the empty glass he held. She expected that he would ask her about Yurian Stonebow. His fate was unknown, to most.

Tamasin was speaking, in the patient tones of one who is repeating a question.

"May we have your leave to depart, Mother? I wish to go to the northern border, there are certain wards that need setting, to warn of the approaching-"

"Tie your weaves, then take position at the cairn built for the dead, Daughter. You will find the other Sisters of your Ajah waiting there. I will join you presently."

Tamasin blinked, but her cool reserve did not waver. She inclined her head and tugged on the reins, turning her gelding and cantering away, the younger Aes Sedai and the four Warders bowing and following. The Amyrlin watched them go.

_A__ good girl, Tamasin. Though I had to switch her once or twice as a novice, I recall… a wilful child, much like her charge… still, the Hall could do worse than stand for Tamasin, when I am gone. Much worse… and I expect they _will_._

The General held the fine crystal glass steady as Cheviz poured the dregs of the bottle in, until it was half-full. Half-_empty_, in his opinion. There were few who could be stared at accusingly by the General for any period of time without becoming nervous, but Cheviz was definitely one of them. The tall, darkly-clad man had served his Lord for a long time, since the Battle of Maighande, which his former master (and a great many others) had not managed to survive. He was well-acquainted with the mercurial moods of the Nobleman whose head he had carefully shaved each morning for the last forty years. Besides, not even the stare of a Myrddraal could discomfort Cheviz – he would just coldly ask the Fade if its name was on the guest list, and send the creature away with a flea in its ear when it transpired that it was not. Finally, Cheviz relented and leant his angular body forward, to murmur in his Lord's ear.

"As you may have apprehended, my Lord, I took the liberty of opening the 989 Tamborwyn." As though his General could not clearly see the cursed label! "I thought it appropriate, given the high honour accorded you by the Mother's visit…"

The General had been saving one of the rarest bottles in his collection for a truly special occasion, the end of the Trolloc Wars, perhaps… but the Amyrlin was the Amyrlin, and he could hardly disapprove.

"Excellent choice, Cheviz," the General growled. "Tamulchinda is _very happy_ that you chose to decant the _last bottle_ of the Tamborwyn without first _seeking his permission_." If the man had popped the cork on his last bottle of the 989 Tamborwyn for anyone _else_, he would have skinned him alive _and_ decorated his lance with a new scalp! Not that Cheviz had much in the way of hair either, these days. The General looked down at the wine, swirling it slowly in the glass, sighed gustily. And seized another glass from the table, tipping half the contents into it, making two quarter-full glasses, enough for a sip each. He pushed the glass toward the old servant, who raised an interrogative eyebrow – the equivalent of a shocked scream from a normal man.

"Burn-you, Cheviz, _take it_," he snarled, "Tamulchinda _never_ drinks alone." The General and his loyal retainer clinked the crystal together, and drank. In the absence of a fireplace, the General hurled his glass against the hard surface of the Stump, where it shattered pleasingly. Cheviz simply replaced his on the table. The General rolled the heavenly, amber liquid around in his mouth, then let it trickle slowly down his throat.

"Ahhh… they will not make wine like that again," he breathed.

"Indeed not, my Lord." Cheviz was smirking, which meant that he was about to unveil one of his surprise acquisitions. The General tensed expectantly, like a small boy about to receive his Nameday gift. "Though might I take this opportunity to inform my Lord that during our last venture amongst the Saferi, during the Relief of Shainrahien, I was able to locate and secure a bottle of the 923 Escalion vintage…"

The General stared. Compared with the 923 Escalion, the 989 Tamborwyn tasted like pigswill! There was not even supposed to be any left, the last bottle thought to have been decanted a hundred years ago! How had Cheviz managed to even _find_ one? _And_ kept its existence hidden from him until now? But it was pointless to even ask. Cheviz would never reveal his methods, no matter how loudly his Lord shouted at him. The man was utterly unflappable – why, he had once calmly beaten a grey man to death with a heavy silver tray, right in front of everybody!

The General's would-be assassin had walked past numerous guards and armed guests, escaping notice until he was only a few paces away from his target… but Cheviz had an uncanny ability to detect anyone who had not been _invited_. A last blow of the heavily dented tray and the drab, nondescript Darkfriend had fallen back and lain still, the dark-bladed, Thakan'dar-forged dagger slipping from his lifeless fingers. Cheviz had bowed smoothly to the General and his shocked guests, apologised for the interruption, provided reassurance that the 'debris' would be removed shortly… and announced that dinner was now served.

The General still felt vaguely offended that whichever Dreadlord it was had only sent _one_ grey man to kill him… he had heard that in the last failed attempt on the Amyrlin's life, the Shadow had dispatched a round _dozen_ of its soulless assassins!

"Curse-you, Cheviz, why did you not _tell_ Tamulchinda you had found a bottle of the 923 Escalion?" Clearly, the impossible fellow had been keeping things from him again.

"Forgive me, my Lord, but in all the excitement of the last campaign, it quite slipped my mind until now. The bottle is safely secured in my Lord's baggage-train. If I may make so bold, it has always been my considered opinion that the Tamborwyn is somewhat over-rated amongst connoisseurs – if my Lord recalls, it was one of _his_ acquisitions? Perhaps my Lord will find the Escalion a more appropriate vintage with which to toast the success of our military enterprise?"

Cheviz soundlessly withdrew, his long face now placid and smirk-free. Until the next time. Like his General, Cheviz liked to win – and he _knew_ when he had won.

* * *

"Should Tamulchinda have a chair fetched for you, Mother?"

"No, this stone will do just as well. Will you not take a seat also, General?"

"The Watch is not done, Mother."

"I have never quite understood what that is supposed to mean. Is it not possible to guard the Blightborder whilst sitting down?"

"It _is_ possible, Mother, provided that a horse and saddle are employed…"

"But _not_ a chair?"

"Indeed no. That would be… dishonourable." The General's nomadic, tent-dwelling ancestors had scorned the use of chairs, he believed. Perhaps the custom had arisen from that… perhaps not. _What in the Pit was the Amyrlin Seat_ _doing here?_

"You look concerned, General. Does something trouble you?"

The Amyrlin was ancient, dark eyes peering from a bird-like skull over which the skin was stretched like thin parchment. Her hair was the purest, silvery white, and hung far down her back in a thick, loose braid. When she spoke, her accent and idiom were of a Tar Valon of three centuries ago. Her gown also, shimmering purple silk beneath the seven-striped stole of her office, was of an antique, pleated style that had been popular in his grandmother's day. She wore a thick, golden belt secured over it.

The General took a deep breath. "Mother, you are in the eye of a cyclone, at the storm's heart. Tamulchinda would be sadly remiss if he did not inform you that his scouts report a force of Shadowspawn approximately ten times our strength will be here by tomorrow… they have almost certainly destroyed the Legions to our north, and we are next."

The Amyrlin turned to stare into the mist, as though searching with some other sense than sight or sound. "I know you are there," she snapped, "show yourself!"

The Amyrlin's Warder drifted out of the smoky haze. His fancloth cloak had made him invisible until he chose to move. The Gaidin was tall and stringy, with a few wisps of white hair clinging to his scalp around the ears – why, the man was almost as old as _him!_ And he looked as hard as nails. Harder.

"Cease your hovering, Wenslas Gaidin. I wish to speak alone with the General." The old Warder frowned at the Amyrlin, then turned cold blue eyes on the General. He did not say anything – it was difficult to imagine any words escaping that rat-trap mouth, that stony face, but his eyes moved to the General's sword for a moment, his meaning clear. The precautions were understandable.

There were many in the last three centuries who had seen the victory of the Shadow as inevitable, who had swelled the ranks of the Friends of the Dark. Some had done so openly, joining the vast armies that rampaged from Nation to Nation, burning and destroying wherever they were not opposed. Others turned to the Shadow in more clandestine ways, keeping their Oaths to the Great Lord secret, remaining where they were to observe and report to their new masters, even if their station was in the White Tower itself.

Ever since one of these hidden traitors had got close enough to the Amyrlin to scratch her hand with a poisoned needle – despite the fact that she had been Healed in time to save her life – the lengths to which the Gaidin went to protect the Mother, the level of wariness they directed at anyone who approached her, verged on the ridiculous. Even Tamulchinda, who had been slaughtering Trollocs and Darkfriends for most of his life, was not above suspicion! Especially here, in a place where no Aes Sedai could properly defend herself…

The General shrugged, unbuckled the scabbarded blade from his belt, and was in the process of passing it to the old Warder, when the Amyrlin spoke again.

"The General may provide me with protection in your absence, Wenslas, but he can scarcely do so without his sword."

Wenslas Gaidin glared at the Amyrlin. The General merely glanced.

"Tamulchinda does not mind, Mother…"

"The Amyrlin minds!" she snapped.

Wenslas Gaidin snorted, raised his eyes skywards for a moment, then with a last cold stare at the General, turned and trudged away. The Amyrlin spoke loudly, so that her departing Warder would hear. Wenslas was going a little deaf in his old age, though he would never admit it…

"Wenslas Gaidin assumes that fifty years of exemplary service and numerous thwarted assassinations gives him the right to try the patience of his Amyrlin and express open dissatisfaction with her decisions…" The Amyrlin raised her voice; "unfortunately, he is entirely _correct_ in his assumption!"

The old Warder turned, expressionless, and despite his age, performed an elegant bow. "Honour to serve, Aes Sedai," he grated, in a voice not unlike gravel cascading over more gravel, "_always_." The Warder disappeared into the low mist hanging over the blackened stumps. The General doubted that he had gone far. He rebuckled his scabbard, bowing to the Amyrlin.

"Tamulchinda thanks you for expressing such trust in him."

"Tamulchinda is welcome."

The Amyrlin smiled, running a hand over the golden belt _ter'angreal_ she wore. Casting the Privacy Ward had drained some of the _saidar_ from the Well, but there was still more than enough left over to defend herself, if need be. Perhaps she would give the belt to Tamasin, for the coming battle. She might have need of it.

The General watched her warily. To an uninformed observer, the frail old woman might have seemed at his mercy, should the suspicions of the old Warder have somehow proved justified – but he knew better. In fact, he felt a little like the mouse left alone with the cat! As well as her kitten, since the young Princess was still there.

After dismissing the Battle Ajah Sisters, the Amyrlin had descended from the confines of her litter, aided by two Gaidin, and taken the General's arm. She had then suggested that they "go for a walk." Trailed by the young Accepted of Royal Blood, surrounded by Warders ghosting through the mist to either side, they had proceeded to make their way to an area beside a fallen Great Tree where numerous stones and boulders had been placed, many with designs carved on them. One of which, the Amyrlin was currently perched upon.

The General sighed, and tried again. "You should not be here, Mother..."

"Yet this is exactly where I wish to be. On the right flank, the Tower Guard have reinforced the Almoreni Legions – they and the Attackers of the Stone sweep north, encountering little serious opposition. Couriers report much the same situation on the left, with combined Legions of the horse-archers of Safer and your own Jaramide lancers driving all before them."

"That is good to hear, Mother. Tamulchinda is pleased. Provided that when the Shadowspawn are sent howling back to the Blight, the Saferi do not think to outstay their welcome." Manetheren had not been the only Nation to have a long succession of border-wars with the Kingdom of Safer.

"I am sure that they will not. I have several Sisters of the Grey Ajah in constant attendance at the Royal Court of Shainrahien, and they will have belaboured that same point with King Halawayne at some length… by the way, my Keeper received a curious message. The Grey Sisters report that the High-King of Safer is convinced that when your Legion was garrisoned at his Palace, one of your men stole an extremely valuable item from his wine-cellar… are you _alright_, General?"

"Tamulchinda is… _fine_, Mother…"

"You made a choking noise – did you swallow a bug?"

"Yes.. a bug..."

"King Halawayne is extremely angry, apparently it was the very last bottle of a particular rare vintage, or some such foolishness… I know little of viniculture… as if the silly man does not have larger concerns, at the moment! I do not suppose you have heard anything of this matter?"

"Nothing! Mother… Tamulchinda believes that his men were too busy protecting the Saferi King's precious Palace from the Dreadlord's siege-engines to have the opportunity for such larceny, but he shall certainly make his enquiries…"

"Yes, well… as I said, the advance goes well out on the flanks, where the Ocean and Aiel Waste respectively limit enemy counter-manoeuvres. But it is _here_ where the northern offensive will win or fail. The Centre. Do you imagine that you were given command of the Reserve by chance, General?"

"Tamulchinda rarely speculates on such matters. Give Tamulchinda two old men and a dog and he will take them north to the war, without questioning, as he has always done. That is Tamulchinda's policy."

"And a fine policy it is. For too long we have endured the mistakes of military leaders with a surplus of ambition. I need a General at the heart of this who does not make mistakes, yet is willing to take risks. I have followed your career with interest. The Supreme War-Council wished to give your command to Duke Karlomin of Eharon, by the way. I forbad it."

"Well that you did, Mother. Karlomin is a very great fool. Tamulchinda would not trust him with a patrol, let alone several Legions."

"You speak your mind, General."

"Tamulchinda is known for it. In fact, he was once almost executed for it."

The Amyrlin smiled. "Oh, I would never have let them behead you, General. I need your head right where it is, upon your shoulders. They wanted someone else to command the Reserve, younger and of less questionable loyalty. I insisted on _you_."

The Amyrlin gazed at him consideringly for a long time, her dark eyes holding several lifetimes worth of knowledge. Then, as if coming to a decision, she turned to the young Accepted who still lingered nearby.

"Leave us, child."

The Accepted curtsied low, gave the General a cool glance (no curtsy for him, he noticed) and began to depart with her best Aes Sedai glide.

"Are you not forgetting something, my dear?"

The Accepted turned and immediately transformed from a calmly collected adept of the White Tower into a gawky adolescent. She looked down at the bouquet she was holding, blushed, bobbed another, less graceful curtsy and hurried over to the stones. She paused, looking down at them.

"Which one is it, Mother?"

"The one that bears the ancient sign of the Servants, child."

"I can see _that_, but there is something _else_ carved on here… a round thing, with facets?" The Amyrlin rose and joined her, the General following.

"Goodness," commented the Amyrlin, "it looks like a Locator-Key…"

"What is that, Mother?"

"Something very old, child. Something that finds boxes, and opens them up for you. Though what is inside may not always be what you expect…"

The Accepted knelt to place the bouquet of flowers carefully before the carved stone. The General observed with some curiosity.

"What is the significance of the flowers, Mother?" he enquired.

"The flowers? Oh, they are for the dead. Are they not, my dear?"

The Accepted glanced up at the Amyrlin, nodded, then fixed her dark eyes on the General. She adopted a patient, lecturing tone.

"For many years, an Elder of this _stedding_ would leave flowers on this spot, to honour the memory of an Aes Sedai whose bones lie buried here. Her daughter and granddaughter continued the tradition every year on this day... it was her granddaughter who told me about it actually, and I wished to be the last to do so… the Mother said I might, so here I am!"

The Amyrlin nodded, thoughtfully. "A merely symbolic act, but symbols are more important than we think. They help to define us, they make us who we are." The Amyrlin bowed her head a moment, gazing down at the marker stone.

"I wonder who he was," she whispered.

Tamulchinda blinked. _He? _The Amyrlin patted the kneeling Accepted's head affectionately. The girl looked up at her, a glimmer of tears in her dark eyes.

"Run-along, Princess. This is no place for you."

The Amyrlin watched the Accepted glide away with approval. The girl would not choose White – she was most definitely a Green at heart! – but had the strength and potential to be a true asset to the Tower. She also had a probable Talent – the only reason the Amyrlin had brought her to this dangerous place. What she had done in coming here was much akin to feeling her way in the dark, a darkness that concealed monsters and madmen – she had needed every one of her few assets available. Even dreams. The Princess would be tested, when they returned. At least, when the rest of the Sisters returned. The Amyrlin Seat had left Tar Valon in the full knowledge that she would never see the White Tower again.

* * *

"And here, Mother, is where I have instructed the Builders to excavate around the existing foundations and enlarge the sub-basements, providing additional storage space for the archived records that cannot be accommodated in the general stacks…" Simharla Sedai sounded almost enthusiastic at the prospect.

The Amyrlin Seat gazed into the massive hole in the ground that lay between the two broken walls, a steep ramp of rubble leading down into the gloom. "That looks… fine, Daughter," she responded, tiredly. She was growing unaccustomedly weary more and more often these days. Simharla did not detect her tone of patient disinterest, naturally. If it wasn't written down in a _book_, it scarcely registered to the woman! And her clipped, Mainelle accents grated as she explained every last detail.

Simharla Sedai awkwardly adjusted her brown-fringed shawl a little – she couldn't get it to lie straight down her back, with the white flame in the centre. It looked decidedly wrinkled – the Amyrlin suspected that her surprise visit to the construction-site had occasioned a sudden search on Simharla's part for a shawl that had probably not been worn since the day she was Raised! The tall Brown Ajah Sister with the multitude of narrow, beaded braids, continued with her exhaustively detailed exposition, while the group of Ogier stonemasons assembled around them watched and listened approvingly. Wenslas Gaidin stood beside her stoically enough, but the Amyrlin could sense his boredom through the Bond.

"The new wing of the Library, it will be a far better environment for the location and study of all materials pertaining to…" The Amyrlin blotted her out. Whereas most Aes Sedai regarded the Shadowspawn invasion of Tar Valon fifty years previously as the worst blow to the White Tower in its long history, Simharla seemed to view the partial destruction of the Library by Trollocs and Darkfriends as a valuable opportunity to rebuild and improve! "…greater access to historical and scientific resources via the new entrance leading directly into the transept, it will-"

"That sounds _fine_, Daughter. But if you will excuse me, the air in here is a little close. Perhaps we may repair outside?"

Simharla's rather protuberant eyes widened. "Forgive me, Mother!" she squawked, "your health, I did not mean to impair it, and with all of this rock-dust drifting about – I was not _thinking_, when I invited you to inspect the new works…"

The Ogier were starting to look concerned too. The Amyrlin sighed.

"Not at all, calm yourself, Daughter. Be at peace, good Ogier, I will feel better outside, in the air." The Ogier looked doubtful. She was probably the oldest human they had ever seen, a dying leaf fluttering on a branch, waiting for a final gust to carry it away.

The Amyrlin hurriedly addressed them before they too became solicitous. "You are all to be congratulated, this is fine work, every bit as good as that which the artisans of your _stedding_ performed in the making of the Tower and the City."

This was high praise indeed! Wide grins seemed to split Ogier faces in two, some even blushed and shuffled their feet, the hairy points of their ears twitching. Probably, there were some here whose great-grandfathers had been among those who had built Tar Valon, the first city constructed after the Breaking of the World had destroyed the few cities that had survived the War of Power.

"Glory to the Builders," the Amyrlin added, for good measure.

"Honour to the Servants of All," the Ogier responded politely, in a rumbled chorus.

Leaning heavily on Wenslas Gaidin's arm, the Amyrlin made her way out into the sunlight, Simharla Sedai scuttling after her. There was new scaffolding erected against the old Library walls, still scorched black in places, more Builders moving about high above, practicing their art. The Amyrlin shook her head. It shamed her that half a century had passed before the necessary resources to repair the damage had been made available by the Hall, but soon, there would be smooth white stone to hide the damage done, and perhaps a neutral passage in the official History to cover up a time when the White Tower itself had almost fallen to the Trolloc hordes! With this in mind, she glanced at Simharla. And lowered her voice.

"What of the Thirteenth Repository?"

Simharla blinked. "All is in readiness, Mother. The proscribed texts, they have been removed from the main stacks and will henceforth be made available only to yourself or the Ajah Heads, as per instructions." The Brown Ajah believed in the dissemination of knowledge and the Amyrlin did not know if Simharla disapproved of her directions, but she had carried them out efficiently and discretely nonetheless. There would be an official History of the Tower for all to study, and a _real_ History that was only for a select few to know. It had to be that way. Symbols were important – but they had to be pure and unblemished. A symbol such as the White Tower had to seem strong and unbroken, in the public imagination. The Amyrlin lowered her voice further.

"And the Seals?"

"Forgive me, Mother, but my enquiries, they have yielded little so far, other than that the 'Chamber of the Seven Seals' (as the storeroom was then known) had actually only contained _four_ of these cuendillar discs for at least the three hundred years prior to the destruction of that wing of the Library, and following this, none at all could be located. They would not have been of interest to the Myrddraal or Trollocs, of course, but though the Darkfriends concentrated their looting on the lower levels of the Tower, there were some small items stolen from the Library, which may well have included these… artefacts." Clearly, Simharla did not believe that such were really the seals on the Dark One's prison, that this was just a colourful myth.

The Amyrlin did not disabuse her about the Seals, the focus-points for the patch over the Bore, but she felt the guilt, deep in her bones. Though young Rashima Kerenmosa had worn the Stole at the time of the third siege of Tar Valon and bore the bulk of the responsibility for leaving the White Tower largely undefended, having stripped it of much of its garrison, she could not help but feel that as the Soldier Amyrlin's successor, she shared some of the blame. First and foremost, the Amyrlin Seat was intended to be the Watcher of the Seals – and had failed utterly in that task! For her, the title she held was a hollow reminder of that failure, a bad joke…

"I can continue my investigation, but the times, they were understandably chaotic, and little is known of what happened to these seals. I am pleased to report that several of the stolen bestiaries were later recovered, however."

Simharla obviously regarded the theft of books as a far greater crime than the looting of mere heartstone ornaments. Though to be fair, she and the other Brown Sisters had put up a fanatical defence of the main Library during the blackest moments of the siege, when the enemy managed to take one of the bridges and actually invaded the White Tower itself! That the whole building had not burned to the ground was largely due to their absolute refusal to abandon it. Twelve Aes Sedai of the Brown Ajah as well as nearly twenty of their Warders had perished on that day. Even seasoned Sisters of the Battle Ajah had been impressed by the level of heroism exhibited by the usually quiet, bookish Browns, in protection of their beloved Library.

"Very well. Please continue your efforts, Daughter, you may draw upon any means at my disposal. _Nothing_ is more important than the recovery of the seven-"

"Mother!" A commotion, the sound of running feet. "They are coming!"

Wenslas Gaidin's sword left its sheath with a screech of steel, a movement mirrored by Warders and Guardsmen all around. The blades were lowered slightly when a pair of Younglings appeared, running hard, red-faced and sweating. They skidded to a halt before the Amyrlin, bare-chested and dusty, and flinched as Wenslas Gaidin stared at them coldly. Swiftly, each dropped to one knee, a hand pressed to the ground, the other touching the belts where their swords would hang. When they had earned them. The Amyrlin regarded the pair of boys with bemusement.

"Where are your shirts?" demanded Wenslas Gaidin in outraged tones, "is this any way to appear before your Amyrlin?" The youths flinched again. "Rosh, Buchan, what is the _meaning_ of this?"

"Excuse us, Wenslas Gaidin," Rosh gasped, breathlessly, "we were sparring in the Grove, we did not have time to-"

"There are Ogier, Mother!" interrupted Buchan, in a strangled voice.

"Coming out of the Waygate!" choked Rosh.

The Amyrlin blinked. "And what is so unusual about that, my boys?"

Probably, they were just additional stonemasons, come from Stedding Nurshang. She had a feeling that young Rosh and Buchan would be getting a taste of the strap before too long. Though approaching his seventieth year, Wenslas Gaidin still had a powerful arm, as well as a strong dislike for violations of Warder decorum, as many a Youngling had painfully discovered.

Rosh blanched, Buchan shook his head.

"But there are _thousands_ of them, Mother! They are all women!"

"They are _singing!_"

That was when she first heard it…

Above, the Ogier stonemasons had already ceased their labours, had gathered in lines along the scaffolding, to gaze out across the Tower grounds. They had begun to rend their clothes, tearing at their shirts in a display of grief, huge eyes glistening with tears. And then, the Amyrlin heard the sound that keen Ogier ears had already detected – a low, unearthly dirge, thousands of voices raised in a wordless song of grief, rising in volume as its source approached. The Amyrlin turned, and stared.

A long line of Ogier women, four abreast, was pacing slowly toward the Library. She could not see the far end of the column, it disappeared from sight into the Ogier Grove, but they numbered in the thousands. The long dresses of the tall Ogier women were worked with embroidered vines and flowers, yet were torn and soiled, stained with soot and dark blood in places. Some bore wounds and bruises, had bandaged arms in slings or leant limping on staffs. As they walked, they sang. Though no stranger to grief, it was the saddest sound the Amyrlin had ever heard.

As they came closer, she saw that the Ogier women had dark, purple blossoms twined into their long hair, that each face, with features somehow more delicate than those of the males, was marked with streaks of black ash across the forehead and beneath the eyes. Simharla gasped.

"What does it mean?" demanded the Amyrlin, raising her voice over the dirge. The Ogier men grouped on the scaffolding and around the walls of the Library had joined the song now, their deeper voices making it swell into an anthem of pain.

Simharla answered without looking away from the compelling sight. "They sing the mourning-hymn, Mother… the ashes, the night-blossoms, they are symbols of grief… they have suffered a very great loss…"

The four Ogier women at the head of the line were unmistakeably Elders. One walked a pace ahead of the others, an ancient Elder, her tattered dress and cloak covered in delicate embroidery. She halted before the Amyrlin, gazing down at her. Behind, the line split to either side and Ogier women continued to enter the grounds until they stood assembled in a huge crescent before the Library, continuing their plaintive song. Finally, it ceased, and silence held sway.

Tower servants and guards alike stared in shock, while the Ogier men watched respectfully, their hands folded and ears drooping low against their skulls. Even taciturn Wenslas seemed impressed by the solemnity of the scene – his mouth hung open and he gazed at the Ogier women for a long moment, before recalling his duty and resuming his eternal vigilance against anything that might harm his Amyrlin. Rosh and Buchan had taken refuge behind him, were staring wide-eyed.

The Elder spoke, her voice low. "I am Fareya daughter of Hulith daughter of Lath. I see that you wear the Stole of the seven colours. You are the Amyrlin Seat?"

The Amyrlin nodded. She did not trust her voice to function properly.

Elder Fareya took a deep, shuddering breath, her eyes filling with tears. Behind her, deep sobs and wails of terrible grief rose from the Ogier women.

"Stedding Dantu has fallen. Our men are all dead, the Great Trees have been felled. We came to tell you. We thought that you should know." The Elder raised a hand and more than a hundred of the younger, stronger Ogier women stepped forward from the crowd, approaching the Library. Each had a huge book strapped to her back, or carried scrips stuffed full of scrolls and scraps of bark. Ignoring the Ogier men who watched solemnly, they began to lay their burdens down on the Library steps.

Elder Fareya observed sadly for a moment, then turned back to the Amyrlin. "Our _stedding_ is dead now, ruined and defiled. No Ogier will ever return there. This is our history, that little which could be saved. We entrust it to your keeping."

Finally, the Amyrlin found her voice. "By the Light and my hope of Rebirth, I will see your menfolk and _stedding_ avenged," she promised.

Elder Fareya looked down at her sadly. "To what end?" she asked. "If you kill those who did this, will it bring our husbands back from the dead, that we may tend them once more? Will the Great Trees live and grow again?" She raised a hand. As one, the Ogier women turned, and began to slowly file back toward the waygate.

"You have wounded, Elder Fareya," stated the Amyrlin, "I will summon Sisters of the Yellow Ajah, if you will but wait a moment…"

Elder Fareya paused and turned her ashen, ravaged face to the Amyrlin.

"Our Healers will tend their injuries in due course," the Ogier Elder responded, dully, "but I thank you for the offer…" She began to turn away again.

"Wait!" shouted Simharla, "where will you go?" The Elder glanced at the Brown Sister, her eyes somehow lifeless.

"I have asked that my companions in grief begin anew in other _stedding_, and for the most part, they have agreed to this. For myself, I will walk the Ways until the Longing takes me. Then, perhaps I shall see my husband and sons again."

As the long line of mourners walked back to the Grove, Simharla began to cry, softly. She was not the only one. There were few who were not moved by the sight of the Ogier women. But after an extended lifetime exposed to the horrors of war, the Amyrlin had no tears left. Besides, she had other concerns… she was thinking about a Foretelling. _So, it was finally time, was it? _

A Guard Captain stood nearby, rubbing at his eyes a little and frowning angrily. It was the Manetherener, what was his name? Ah, yes… "Captain Buie?"

The Captain started, and immediately came to kneel before her.

"How long would it take you to assemble two Banners of Cavalry, with provision and fodder for a month?" They should only need a couple of week's worth, but it was best to err on the generous side when one had hungry armsmen to feed.

The Captain raised his eyebrows a little. Two Banners! This was nearly three-thousand men, half of the Cavalry reserve, with only the other two mounted Banners and six of Infantry left behind for Tar Valon's defence… but Buie was a good man, he did not question, merely worked it out in his head.

"By early this afternoon, Mother."

"Good. See to it."

"It will be as you say, Mother." Captain Buie rose and hurried away, shouting for various Guardsmen to attend him. He had much to do. The Amyrlin glanced up at Wenslas Gaidin, whose strong right arm she was still leaning on. He was regarding her with some suspicion.

"Wenslas, go and find Rhiannon Sedai. Tell her that I will see her with every available Green Sister in the Tower stables by noon, or I will see her _stilled_."

Wenslas blinked. Rhiannon was Head of the Green Ajah, their illustrious Captain-General, and though this was supposed to be a secret, everyone knew it. She also had a notoriously foul temper. Delivering such a message would not be a task any man might relish. Wenslas sighed loudly.

"Honour to obey, Mother," he growled as she released his arm, and strode away grimly, beckoning for the two shirtless Younglings to accompany him. They fell in proudly to either side, doubtless pleased to be included. More likely, Wenslas had an ulterior motive in bringing them along – Rhiannon's foul mood might be improved by the presence of a pair of handsome youths. It often had in the past – the woman was _shameless_ regarding her preference for Bonding much younger Warders! Though she would have been hard-pressed to find one who was _older_… The Amyrlin turned to Simharla, who was gaping at her.

"Kindly inform the Hall of Sitters on my behalf, Daughter."

"Inform them..?" Simharla clearly very badly wanted to go back to her books – this was all far too much excitement for the pale academic, and was no doubt reviving bad memories from the Battle for the Library…

"Wait until I am _gone_, then tell them that I have travelled north."

"North, Mother? But..?"

"You may tell the Hall that their Amyrlin has gone to the Wars."

* * *

Byanca su Talloriandred watched as the last of the Ogier women paced back through the shimmering skein of the open Waygate. At least they were no longer singing, but the expressions on their ash-streaked faces… she had thought she had known what grief meant, until this day. Her own face was wet with tears. The golden ring on her finger was forgotten, as were the bands of colour on the hem of her white dress, though she had longed for both for the last three years, and had been able to think of little else since her Testing, the week before. Though memory of what had taken place between the silver arches had faded, like a vivid, half-remembered dream.

Byanca had a freeday, had gone to the Grove to watch Buchan and Rosh spar with the practice swords that now lay discarded on the ground. Along with their shirts. She had been idly speculating on which of them she intended to Bond when she was raised to the Shawl. (And not a moment _before_, the novices and Accepted still told hushed tales of what had become of Barashelle!) But which would she choose? Buchan had the most beautiful hazel eyes, but then, Rosh had jet-black hair like the finest silk… it was so difficult to decide!

Byanca had just begun to enjoy a daydream in which she chose Green and Bonded them _both_, as well as two or three other Younglings whose looks she rather admired, when the stone leaves on the Waygate she was leaning against came alive, seeming to rustle in a breeze that was not there. She had backed away cautiously as a line appeared down the middle of the Waygate and the twin stone doors swung open. And then, she had heard the singing…

Byanca had watched wide-eyed, all thoughts of Warders forgotten, as the procession of Ogier women had exited, voices raised in a funereal dirge. Now, they returned in silence, walking back into the Ways until there was but one left.

The final Ogier, an ancient Elder, paused a moment before going back through the Waygate. She turned, looking back at the beautiful Grove, taking it all carefully in as though she thought it would be the last time she would ever see green, growing things, and seemed to smile a little, before noticing the silent human watcher. The Elder gazed at Byanca with eyes that seemed to hold all of the World's pain.

Byanca was First-Princess, oldest daughter of the Sun-King, destined to one day be Aes Sedai Queen of Almoren… or at least, what was left of it. These days, Father's fief only seemed to extend a few hundred miles around Al'cair'raheinallen. She would have to do something about that, when it was _her_ turn to sit on the throne. Even so, she was _important_, and therefore not required to curtsy to anyone, with the exception of Father and the Amyrlin Seat – but Byanca su Talloriandred curtsied to the Ogier Elder, lower than she ever had before. The Elder smiled sadly, and inclined her head. Byanca stepped closer, gazing up at the Ogier woman with fascination.

"Why do you look on me in that way, young apprentice?" The Elder's voice was a low rumble, like thunder in the distance.

"Forgive me for staring, Honoured Elder, but… I have seen you before…"

"I do not recall us ever meeting, human child."

"But I saw your face… in a dream!"

Byanca had been having some _very_ strange dreams since coming to the Tower. She had dreamt of a tall young man with reddish hair, striding down the slopes of Dragonmount. As he passed by, the places where his feet touched the bare, rocky earth bloomed with blood-red flowers, sprouting rapidly. He had been a handsome fellow, whoever he was… despite only having the one hand.

She had also dreamed of an old, white-bearded King, his eyes as cold as ice. He wore a diadem – a band of gold circling his brow, supporting gilt wings. The King had pointed west and a vast flight of hawks had flown at his command, to rend and tear a flock of ravens that fled before them. The King pointed again, in the opposite direction, and another hawkish host had launched themselves east – to be rent and torn from the sky by forks of jagged lightning! Only one of the hawks had survived. It flew away to the south.

And she had dreamt of this Ogier Elder, early that very morning! The dream had somehow been truer and more vivid than anything she had ever experienced in sleep – she had been _in_ the _stedding_, had felt the soft breezes on her face, smelt the aroma of myriad blossoms and flowering herbs. And had watched as it all burned away around her, consumed in an instant by yellow and orange flame, until only drifting ashes were left. And a tall Ogier woman, ancient and dignified, had come walking out of the smoke, to tell her something…

The Mistress of Novices had looked at her consideringly when Byanca first mentioned the dreams – they really _were_ the reason she had often overslept, been late down to the kitchens where she was currently responsible for stoking and lighting the great ovens shortly after dawn every morning. A small matter of a frog left in another girl's bed… Byanca had somehow escaped punishment, on that occasion at least. And it seemed that she was to be tested when a Sister with the necessary skill for Talent-delving could be spared from the northern offensive – there was a good chance that she might be something called a 'Dreamer.'

"I saw you, Honoured Elder. You spoke to me."

The Ogier Elder raised her long eyebrows. "Indeed? And what did I say?"

"You said… '_flowers for the dead_.' "

* * *

The Amyrlin glanced up from the blossoms lying before the engraved stone, smiling. "Alone at last. Now we can talk! Do you believe in Prophecy, General?"

"Tamulchinda would be a fool not to. There are some who see a part of the Pattern yet unwoven, and tell of it. It is for us to decide whether this knowledge applies to our own particular thread, or not."

"Well put, General. You remind me of my old mentor, she who discovered my gift and raised me to the White Ajah. Kazandra Sedai had your way of cutting to the heart of something complex. She also had the gift of Foretelling. She told me something once, on her deathbed. It is why I am here."

"You are here because of a Prophecy, Mother?"

"I would imagine that we _all_ are."

_Kazandra was near the end of her long life, had been for a week. The young Aes Sedai sitting beside her bed was watching over her, in vigil. But she could not stop her eyes moving often to the windows. Out in the night, on the far bank of the Erinin, the camp-fires of the enormous host of Shadowspawn besieging the Island of Tar Valon flickered like a myriad fireflies. Larger blazes indicated where the bridge-towns were still burning. The War was going badly. She did not know it yet, but this was just the first of a succession of wars, just as this siege would be far from the last._

"_Souza?" Kazandra's voice was weak, breathy._

"_I am here, Kazandra Sedai," murmured __Souzanna Alrayne, newly raised to the White Ajah, who would one day be elected Amyrlin Seat of the White Tower._

_Kazandra raised a shrivelled hand from the blanket, and Souza took it carefully in hers. "Are they still __out there?"_

"_They are, Kazandra. But the sappers have cut the bridges and they cannot cross the great river. Shadowspawn do not like water, I believe." Though Darkfriend riverships were making nightly assaults on Northharbour, and scouts reported that the Trollocs were busy building huge rafts from felled timbers. Souza wished she could tell Kazandra that the Shadowspawn host had been dispersed, that Tar Valon was safe. But the first of the Three Oaths would not allow it. That would take some getting used to. Though a month had passed, her skin still felt tight and stretched from swearing on the Oath Rod._

"_This war… it will go on for a very long time. Longer than they think."_

"_Is this a Foretelling, Kazandra?" _

_The ancient, dark-skinned Aes Sedai formed her lips into a thin smile, her pale blue eyes staring sightlessly up at the ceiling._

"_No, child, it is something else… something called 'common sense.' This is no ordinary incursion from the Blight – the War has lasted near twenty years and now Tar Valon itself is besieged. There are forces at work here that we do not understand. Ba'alzamon himself leads them, say captured Darkfriends. Perhaps these dreadful events will lead us inevitably to the Final Days."_

_"May the Creator protect us."_

_"__As He did before, in the War of Power? In the Breaking? No, it is for us to help ourselves. Did I ever tell you what my old teacher told me, of the Last Battle?"_

_"No, Kazandra." The woman who had trained Kazandra was a key figure in the history of the White Tower. Kiam Lopiang was legendary in every way, a young Aes Sedai during the Breaking, one of the first to begin to restore order to her scattered sorority when the earth finally ceased to tremble and the rivers returned, when the last of the male Aes Sedai (several at her hands) were dead. Kiam had laid one of the foundation stones of the White Tower, had served as advisor to the very first Amyrlin Seat. She had practically founded the White Ajah. Kazandra had related many stories of this formidable woman, but none concerning the Last Battle._

_"Kiam once told me a curious __tale... 'there is a place, far to the west, where beneath a broken mountain sleeps a great hero of the War of Power, a Scourger of the Shadow who will awaken when the Forsaken return from the Grave, resume his place as Champion of the Light and pit himself against the Dark One's minions…' "_

_The mesmeric, story-teller's cadence faded from Kazandra's voice and she drifted into silence, her mind clearly far away. Souza relaxed her grip on the old Aes Sedai's hand, glancing toward the window again. There were hundreds of thousands of Trollocs out there… how could there be so many? Little was known of Trolloc breeding practices, but hypothesising that the females gave birth to litters of between eight and twelve Trolloc 'cubs' and calculating that some two-thirds survived the harsh conditions north of the Blightborder long enough to reach adulthood and commence breeding themselves, then the overall Trolloc population might be said to increase exponentially at the rate of-_

_"Souza!"_

_Kazandra gripped her wri__st fiercely. Souza jumped, crying out with alarm. Kazandra sat up in the bed, blind eyes staring wildly. She spoke. No, she _Foretold_._

"When Ogier women bring books to the Tower, the Watcher of the Seals will seek out the Lord of Lances and await the End!"_ Kazandra fell back onto her pillows, and lay still. Souza leant over her, much concerned, but it was too late. She was gone._

The General blinked. "Tamulchinda is no expert in these matters, but that certainly _sounds_ like a Foretelling," he ventured, cautiously.

The Amyrlin shrugged. "I do not know if 'the End' means the end of _me_, the end of the Wars, the end of everything… I suppose that we shall just have to wait and see, as instructed." The Amyrlin resumed her seat on the flat rock, and smiled up at the General. "Well now, my Lord of Lances! Let me tell you something. I signed the novice-book the very week that Barsine burned. Did you know that?"

The General stared. It was unusual for an Aes Sedai to even _hint _at her age. It was certainly impolitic to enquire – he had learnt _that_ lesson the hard way! Yet the Amyrlin had just casually divulged that she was _four_ times older than him… and he was _ancient!_ He did not allow any of this to appear on his face. Tamulchinda could teach dissimulation to a statue! Though the enormous moustache certainly helped. He chose his next words carefully, even diplomatically, something he would not have done even with his own Queen. _Especially_ not her, since the vile woman had confiscated all of his lands and banished him… But the Amyrlin Seat was more than a Queen, much more. _This_ Amyrlin in particular.

"They say that Barsine was very beautiful, Mother…" It had been the capital of his Nation, after all, but the General had never seen it, since it had been reduced to smoking ruins long before his birth. The new capital of Deranbar was far from beautiful, a circular array of massive stone block-houses squatting beneath roofs of thick slate, surrounded by layer after layer of tower-studded curtain-walls, deep moats and earth fortifications. Deranbar was a city designed to withstand almost anything. Deranbar was _ugly_. Which was why, after nearly three hundred and fifty years of blood and fire, after seven major sieges, Deranbar was still _there_.

"Beautiful? Oh, it was. At sunset, a thousand lanterns would be lit in each of the Great Spires, so tall that they seemed to touch the stars. You could drift through the evening city in a canal boat, leaning back and looking up at them. My father took me with him on one of his buying-journeys, when I was just a little girl. He wished to acquire a large quantity of lace, I seem to recall…"

The Amyrlin fixed him with her dark, knowing gaze, and Tamulchinda did something he rarely did when meeting another's eyes, whether they were Aes Sedai, Queen or King… he blinked. The Amyrlin leant forward, her reedy voice rising, with a note of fervent urgency to it, as though she knew that she did not have long to impart something to him. She was probably correct in this.

"There are none alive today but for myself and two of the Sitters, a handful of Ogier Elders perhaps, who have ever known anything but the Wars. Yet as a child, I knew a world of harmony and peace. Before the Trollocs came." The Amyrlin stared at him in defiance. "I will know that world again, before I die! I will see the last Shadowspawn driven back into the Blight, never to return. Then, perhaps we can begin to restore what has been lost."

"But Mother, it is too dangerous to risk yourself…"

"I was there at the beginning – I intend to be there at the end, also!"

The General knew when he was beaten. No-one could refuse the Amyrlin Seat, not even him. But he could, at least, change the subject.

"Mother... if Tamulchinda may ask, what became of Yurian?"

"I wondered if you would raise this matter…"

"It would seem an excellent opportunity to do so. Tamulchinda rarely spurns an opportunity, when it presents itself. This is why he is one of the Great Captains."

"You were certainly the greatest of those Captains who served the so-called Dragon-General." The Amyrlin Seat smiled thinly, and the General found himself wondering what it would be like to face the Mother across a stones board.

"Well… we all make mistakes."

"If Yurian Stonebow had not raised the Dragon's Standard and brought civil war to three Nations, we might have properly exploited the victory at Maighande and ended these wars sooner! The False Dragon robbed us of our triumph!"

"Tamulchinda remembers Maighande, Mother. He remembers that on the fifth day, you could walk across the entirety of the battlefield without touching the ground, simply by stepping on the corpses. He remembers a great pile of dead Dreadlords and Myrddraal at the centre, with your predecessor and all five of her Warders somewhere at the bottom of it! But Tamulchinda does not remember any plans to exploit this 'victory' – just a few shattered Legions crawling back to the garrison-towns, a handful of men more dead than alive. If that is triumph, then give Tamulchinda defeat, for the two seem much alike!"

The Amyrlin was becoming annoyed, the General noted. Women often did, as far as he could tell, when you argued with them and began to make sense…

"You wish to speak of history? Very well. Let us review the actions of a certain Lord-General, _after_ Maighande. That _is_ what the final volume of your memoirs is entitled, is it not? 'My Later Campaigns, after Maighande.' Does it perhaps mention your campaigns under the leadership of the False Dragon?"

"It was only _one_ campaign, Mother. It is all mostly dealt with in the previous volume, in chapter twenty-four…"

"You foreswore oaths of fealty to your Queen and the White Tower, and gave allegiance to a male channeller who falsely claimed to be the Dragon Reborn." The Amyrlin's voice was ice-cold, her piercing gaze unsettling and accusing in equal measure. "If I may ask, why would you do such a thing?"

"Yurian was a very persuasive man, Mother. Some say he was _ta'veren_."

"Some say the moon is made out of goat's cheese!"

"It seemed plausible... The Prophecies of the Dragon clearly state that the Lord of the Morning will return to save us in the darkest of times-"

"_Some_ of them do."

"The times seemed applicably dark… Yurian certainly believed that he was the Dragon Reborn, as did a great many others besides Tamulchinda!"

"Then why did you leave his service, General? I am sure that I do not need to remind you that your defection and assistance with capturing the False Dragon was the only reason that you did not go to the Headsman's block with the rest of his followers! When did you decide that he was _not_ the Dragon?"

"When Tamulchinda came to the abrupt realisation that Yurian was _insane!_ Several times in Tamulchinda's hearing, the Dragon-General would conduct conversations and arguments with someone who he addressed as 'Telamon' although there was no-one else there. Though un-nerving,Tamulchinda became accustomed to that, but then, Yurian began to exhibit… questionable behaviour."

The General scowled, feeling that he was being disloyal to the memory of his old commander. His old friend. "It was not always thus. Yurian was the finest General that Tamulchinda has ever seen, bar none. He would not have served him, else. Though ten years younger, Yurian was already a master tactician, with the wisdom and patience of a man twice his age. Tamulchinda only ever beat Yurian at stones _once_, and he still suspects that Yurian let him win because it was Tamulchinda's Nameday!"

"I fear that you are straying from the subject somewhat, General."

"Yes, Mother. In his last days, Yurian grew more and more irrational, his decisions became increasingly erratic… besieging his home-city for example, taking the Dragon Legion to the one place where he could not use his Power! But when he demanded the building of the statue… that was when Tamulchinda confesses that he became… concerned."

"_Concerned?_"

"Yes, Mother. The true Dragon Reborn would not be insane… at least, Tamulchinda _hopes_ that-"

"Wait! _What_ statue?"

"Did you not know of the statue, Mother? One morning, Yurian came out of his tent and addressed the assembled Dragon Legion. He ordered us to cease besieging Fel Moreina and instead begin the construction of an enormous statue of himself, one hundred spans in height…"

Yurian Stonebow, the Dragon General, had gone on to explain to the silent ranks of Dragonsworn that The Creator had appeared to him in a vision the previous night and told him that when completed, the statue would come to life! It would walk before the Dragon Legion, crushing their enemies beneath its great stone feet. These same feet, ironically enough, were the only part of the statue to ever be completed.

"Also, Yurian commanded that we were to no longer address him as 'Dragon General' but instead, to use the honorific; 'Favoured Son of the Creator…' "

"Blasphemy! What did you do?"

"We raised the siege – _that_ part made sense at least… there may be worse places to besiege than Fel Moreina, but Tamulchinda does not know where they are."

Aren Mador had been truly beautiful, more a work of art than a city, the island on the lake bordered by shining marble terraces, slender columns supporting graceful archways. Beautiful, yet completely indefensible from the water-borne assault of a Darkfriend Army. Aren Mador had been the first of the great southern cities to fall. Fel Moreina, that had grown from its ruins, was a different story. In place of delicate terracing, towering granite walls loomed, ten spans thick.

"The Dragonsworn took Yurian's words at face-value and immediately began construction of the statue – perhaps they got as far as the ankles before the Fel Moreini came out from behind their walls and killed them, Tamulchinda is not sure. By that point, he was riding for Tar Valon on the fastest horse he possessed!"

"You deserted and later captured the False Dragon with the aid of the surviving Red Sisters, bringing him to Tar Valon to be gentled. After which sentence having been carried out, on the pretence of visiting the open cells to inspect the security arrangements, you attempted to free him from his chains and abet his escape – a failed attempt that only resulted in your _own_ incarceration!"

"Tamulchinda regrets that he suffered a crisis of conscience, on _that_ day."

"I would say that he did! I mean, that _you_ did! By the Hand of the Creator, General, _must_ you refer to yourself in that fashion? It becomes extremely confusing!"

"Tamulchinda is too old to change his ways, Mother. Would it be less formal if he used 'Wheylan', which is his Family rather than House name?"

"Possibly it would…" The Amyrlin sighed. "You do not understand, General. After the gentling, we keep them close – for their _own_ safety. They always die, eventually, but we attempt to ensure that it is not by their own hand that they perish… we try to at least keep them safe, until the end."

"With all due respect, Mother, Wheylan does not think that Yurian wished to be safe. He thinks that he wished to be _free_. If Wheylan had-"

"Oh _please_, do go back to 'Tamulchinda!' "

"Yes, Mother. Thank-you, Mother. If Tamulchinda had the opportunity to relive that moment, then he would make the exact decision that he made on that day, irregardless of spending several years in gaol for his crime, before a dire shortage of Generals who were _not_ incompetent fools resulted in his eventual release!"

Though the period of imprisonment, while frustrating, had at least afforded him the opportunity to finally begin his memoirs. When one had a personal history to write, there was nothing like being locked in a windowless room with only pen and paper for diversion and memory for company!

"I pardoned you because you were _needed_, true – but also because there was part of me that had always secretly agreed with your actions!"

This was something of a revelation, and presumably, it was also _true_. But the General would not be dissuaded. "Mother, what befell Yurian? How did he die?"

"When the Red Sisters first tried to take him, he killed three of them, and severed three more." The Amyrlin's expression was dark, as she related this.

"Tamulchinda knows, Mother. He was _there_."

"We gentled Stonebow, as per the requirements of Tower Law. But when the Hall stood for his execution, I could not bring myself to sign the warrant. We had already taken that part of him that made him wish to live, why then should we take his life also? I exercised the Amyrlin's Veto. The Hall was most displeased, the Sitters for the Red Ajah in particular. I expect they would have all ceased their squabbling long enough to attempt to depose me, if it had not seemed less trouble just to wait for me to die!" That had been some thirty years ago, and she had been delighted to have continued to disappoint the Sitters for so long. The Amyrlin laughed bitterly.

"I was never supposed to have worn the stole for more than a few years, you see. My predecessor was the youngest Amyrlin ever raised – I, the oldest. She was a passionate Green, I of the dispassionate White Ajah. Let _that _tell you something of the way the Hall of Sitters works! They needed an interim Amyrlin, who would do as they 'suggested' and sign whatever was put in front of her. And they wanted Stonebow to pay for his crimes, they wanted blood. I refused them that, at least…"

"Then how did he-?"

"We failed in our duty. Yurian Stonebow took his own life, General. He could not bear to live without being able to touch the Source, even through the Dark One's taint. I wish you to know that the Sisters in attendance on him at the time were disciplined for their negligence. Though they watched him carefully in the days after his trial and gentling, as is always done in these cases, he lulled them into believing that his mood had improved, that he did not wish to die. One morning, while being shaved by a barber, he seized the razor and-"

Muted shouts and the sound of a scuffle from the haze. The General drew his long sabre, taking a step between the Amyrlin and the noise. He raised the curved sword above his head, then lowered it, squinting. Wenslas Gaidin appeared, holding Lord Samadrad by the scruff of the neck, his bared blade pressed to the Adjutant's throat. Samadrad looked even paler than usual, his hands raised in surrender.

"Is this man known to you?" Wenslas Gaidin demanded.

"He serves as Adjutant to Tamulchinda. Do not cut his throat, it may take several weeks for his replacement to arrive, and Tamulchinda will be forced to write all of his own letters and reports in the meantime." _Not to mention the memoirs_…

"I see." Wenslas Gaidin seemed a little disappointed. "You did not announce yourself," he reproved, releasing Lord Samadrad, "I thought that you were an assassin." His heron-mark blade slid back into its sheath with a smooth motion and with a dark glance at the Amyrlin, the grim old Warder stalked back into the fog.

The Adjutant smoothed his fine velvet coat and glanced over his shoulder.

"Charming fellow," he muttered, then bowed low to the Amyrlin. "Forgive the interruption, Mother, but an urgent message has arrived for the General."

"Then deliver it. Do not stand on ceremony, Lord..?"

"Samadrad, Mother."

"Samadrad… yes. I believe I may have once met your grandfather, Lord Pyter Samadrad, when I visited the Great Library that your illustrious ancestors founded."

The Adjutant was torn between an expression of pride at this reminder of the great contribution his House had made to the gathering of scattered knowledge lost in the Breaking, and the pedantic urge to point-out that Lord Pyter had in fact been his _grandfather's_ grandfather! In the end, he settled simply for bowing even lower.

The Amyrlin nodded. "I hope that Wenslas Gaidin did not discommode you, Lord Samadrad? He can be a little over-zealous at times."

Lord Samadrad brushed at the spot of blood, where the keen, power-wrought blade had grazed him slightly. "Not at all, Mother," he lied, then turned to his General. "A rider from the forward Scout Detachment, sir. He confirms the estimates, the Army of the Shadow will be here by tomorrow."

"Numbers?"

"In excess of one hundred thousand, sir." Lord Samadrad tugged out a roll of parchment that was stuffed behind his belt. "There is a detailed report."

The General unrolled it, scanning the lines of script swiftly. "It is as Tamulchinda feared," he muttered, "north of our position, the Seventh Cavalry and Ninth Infantry Legions have been wiped-out. No survivors. A horde of Trollocs is sweeping south. They will be here by the morning." He turned to his Adjutant, who was waiting expectantly. "Plan Three."

Lord Samadrad paled a little, though he was so pale already, it was hard to tell, but nodded and hurried away. Everything was ready, the man was certainly efficient. With two words, the General had set enormous events into motion.

The Amyrlin was curious. "Three, General? Am I to assume that there is also a plan one? A plan two?"

"There are _nine_ Plans in all, Mother. Tamulchinda believes in contingencies, and contingencies for _those_ contingencies. The first Plan is an all-out attack on the advancing column, division of the Legion into a pincer-formation to take the enemy in the flanks. It might have succeeded were there not many times more of them than anticipated – as it is, attack can only lead to our annihilation. The second involves a strategic withdrawal south to a prepared defensive perimeter along the River Mora, but the Shadowspawn would catch the Infantry before we were half-way there – it would only delay our destruction by a few days."

"And the third option, General?"

"Plan Three is to stay right where we are, since we are already in the best defensive position we could possibly ask for!"

"I cannot say I approve of using a _stedding_ for this purpose, but I see the wisdom in it." The Amyrlin glanced at her ruined surroundings and shook her head.

" 'You cannot put the milk back in the cow,' Mother."

"I beg your pardon?"

"Apologies, it was a favourite saying of Tamulchinda's old nursemaid, he was never entirely certain what it meant either… but the _stedding_ is destroyed in any case, and perhaps the murdered Ogier would approve of its use as a bulwark against the Shadow? Tamulchinda means to draw every man he has into the _stedding_, behind prepared defences, to dismount his cavalry and let the Shadowspawn surround us. They will not risk bypassing this position and continuing south, leaving so many men at their back. Since marching his Legion north to repel the incursion, Tamulchinda has not been idle – he has sent his messages and read his replies. The Third and Eighth Reserve Legions are five days away, the Eleventh, a week. If we can hold out until then, there will be sufficient forces to drive this final incursion back into the Blight. And we will have _won_." The enthusiasm faded from his bony old face a little, and he gravely added, "Mother, Tamulchinda thinks that it is high time you leave."

"I will be going nowhere." The Amyrlin turned her head, raising her voice. "Wenslas Gaidin! I _know_ you are lurking nearby!" The old Warder certainly appeared so suddenly as to have not gone very far. "Raise the Amyrlin's Banner before the _stedding_. The Trolloc Wars will be won or lost in this place. _Here_ is where we shall make our stand." Her Warder seemed to approve of _this_ decision, at least – he actually came close to smiling! He bowed, and disappeared again.

The General frowned. "Your standard? They will know that you are here…"

"I _want_ their Dreadlord-General to realise that the Amyrlin Seat is within her grasp. I want the whole force of Shadowspawn concentrated here, so that they cannot break up into dozens of Fists and disperse further south… in case you are not aware, we have stripped all available troops from every garrison between here and the Sea of Storms – they could do incalculable damage, if they get past us."

The General nodded, impatiently. The Amyrlin suppressed a smile. The man obviously wanted to tell her to stop teaching him his trade, but even the notorious General Tamulchinda could only go so far! She wondered if details of this meeting would find their way into his infamous memoirs. Probably. The man described military engagements well, but had no tact, no decorum – as though he were speaking satirically to later generations, tearing down the idols of his times with frank and ill-conceived descriptions of the failings of his peers! Not that she cared for a few ruffled feathers amongst the Military Nobility, but there were other things that she had spoken of, that had no place in the public record…

"Then we will have to see to it that they do _not_ get past us, Mother."

It did not matter. A discrete word with Simharla, a coded message sent to Lord Samadrad, would see certain accounts expunged, prior to publication. The Almoreni Nobleman had been one of the Brown Ajah's most trusted agents for years.

"That we will, General."

Did the General suspect that his faithful Adjutant was secretly a loyal servant of the Tower? Probably. The man was no fool. It was why she had chosen him for this command. Before she died, the Amyrlin Seat had wished to meet with the infamous Lord-General Tamulchinda, and see prophecy fulfilled. And so, she had.

* * *

As the mid-morning sun rose in the sky, the sightless eyes of Eli Mandaelor stared north. Though a choice delicacy, they had not been touched by any of the vultures, crows or ravens that had flocked to the battlefield to gorge themselves. Particularly the ravens, many of which were otherwise engaged in staring at particular areas of the defences, pre-selected by the Myrddraal who had sent them. No part of the Dreadlord's ravaged face had been so much as pecked. There were some things that even a carrion bird would not eat.

Thousands of sharpened wooden stakes lined the border of the _stedding_ now, but this one was different, in that it was out on its own, set up on a small hill to the north, and that it had the head of a recently-deceased Dreadlord impaled upon it. Anselan Gaidin had done the impaling. He had wanted the Dreadlord's face to be the first sight beheld by the Shadowspawn horde when they reached the _stedding_.

If this was not enough of a message for the enemy in itself, he had left another, more literal communication – a sign had been set up beneath the head, a rough plank nailed to two smaller stakes, driven into the ground. Harsh, ugly lettering was scratched onto it with charcoal. There was a great deal of this commodity currently available. Strange that Anselan not only knew the Trolloc speech, but their crude writing also… his knowledge often extended to surprising areas. Chulaan Gaidin, also a Borderlander, had translated the large words for Barashelle. The sign apparently read;

'_HERE YOU WILL FIND NO EASY MEAT – HERE YOU WILL FIND DEATH_'

Barashelle smiled coldly. Hardly lyrical, but a good playwright tailored his words to his audience. It should impress the Trollocs in any case, those that knew how to read would doubtless share the message with those that did not. It might even impress the more-literary Myrddraal also. If the severed head of a much-feared Dreadlord had not already accomplished this. The thin, black scarf was still stretched about Mandaelor's face below his eyes, covering where his nose had mostly rotted away. The rest of his skin was in a similarly poor state. His mouth lolled open, tongue hanging out. It looked horrid! Not even flies would land on it…

Barashelle tore her eyes away from the grisly trophy. Kirwyn had been killed by a Dreadlord, while defending his dying Aes Sedai – she knew that much at least, though no more, about the death of the young man who had been her first Warder. If only for a day. She had cried when Tamasin had given her the news and the strict, older Sister had been surprisingly sympathetic. Perhaps it had been _this_ Dreadlord who had killed Kirwyn. Perhaps another...

Kirwyn had been the whole world to her once, she could not imagine a life that did not include him at her side… she supposed that the fear of the young Gaidin being Bonded by another had briefly driven her insane! She had paid a heavy price for her actions. No Accepted had ever Bonded a Warder before – the penalty had been suitably severe. Now, while she recalled that he had been very handsome, with the dark curls and coppery skin the Saferi were noted for, Barashelle sometimes had difficulty remembering exactly what Kirwyn had looked like. It made her feel… guilty.

Though not _that_ guilty. Kirwyn had walked away from her side without looking back when she was forced to give-up his Bond to another, had let himself be parcelled-out to a stern, older Green Sister, like a sheep sold at market. As a loyal Gaidin of the Tower, he had had no choice but to obey his Amyrlin – but as a man who had pledged his love to her, it was still the _wrong_ choice!

Barashelle did not wish to look north from the small hill, not yet. She knew what she would see, the low pounding of drums in the distance announced such a sight. So she turned her gaze south instead. Beyond the ruined _stedding_, a long line of carts and wagons was winding slowly away, disappearing into the distance. The General had sent away the Logistics and Sappers Banners, as well as the numerous camp-followers that followed his Legion, keeping only fighting men for the coming ordeal. Though she had heard that a deputation of servants (lead by the General's dusty old butler or barber or bodyguard or whatever he was) had flatly refused to leave, and were busy setting up kitchens and infirmaries at the centre of the _stedding_.

The convoy included the mobile-gallows, towed by its lowing oxen, but the Hangman had also elected to stay, standing with the Inquisitor and his Knights. There was something about the bizarre fellow that had always made her rather nervous, but he was as capable with his slim rapier as he was with a noose, and they would need every man who could hold a sword in the coming days. Even him.

There was one person who was definitely _not_ permitted to remain. One of the wagons in the long column contained a very angry Princess of Almoren. Barashelle smiled. At the Amyrlin's command, she had personally seen the arrogant little chit (one of her slowest students, she recalled!) stuffed into the back of a baggage cart, with four short, dark Tower Guard veterans watching her like cats watching a bird! They had orders to return the young Accepted safely to the White Tower at all costs, and did not mean to fail their Amyrlin. Or anger their King. Though the Tower Guard, which contained men of all Nations, was primarily loyal to the White Tower, these four had been chosen because they were all Almoreni. If they ever wanted to visit home again, they had best guard their Heir-Apparent closely.

Half of the Jaramide Cavalry Banner rode with the wagons, five hundred Lancers sitting their saddles with ease. They would escort them as far as the bridge over the Mora, which the sappers would then stand ready to destroy when the last wagon was across. In case things went badly further north. After protecting the convoy as far as the river, they would ride back. Their job was to slash at the flanks of the enemy who by then should have encircled the _stedding_.

The rest of the Lancers waited within, ready to sally forth for a charge that might prove to be their last. The General had dismounted his archers and swordsmen, but a lancer on foot was not of much use to anyone. Even their long sabres were better adapted for fighting from horse-back. The General had included himself in this estimation – he intended to remain firmly in the saddle for the proceedings, and if that final charge were called for, he fully intended to be leading it.

Slowly but steadily, the drums were getting louder. Reluctantly, Barashelle turned her gaze to the north. In the distance, the Trolloc horde was spreading over the hills in a dark tide, their massed kettle-drums throbbing, their dark banners flapping in the wind. She imagined she could hear thousands of pairs of large, booted feet, as well as hooves and paws, pounding on the rough ground. She wondered if she would die today. The prospect did not daunt her. Her love gave her courage.

For the sixth time that morning, Barashelle took the note out of her glove, unfolded it and read the exquisite script with trembling pleasure. She had always had a weakness for love poetry, the more scandalous and forbidden the verse, the better. But this was not like giggling over warm lines of entreaty with other girls… this was different. These passionate sonnets were all about _her_. It had been nearly a year since she found the first, placed mysteriously beneath her pillow. There had been one every day since. They were written by her lover, an accomplished poet. Yes, Barashelle Sedai, penitent Sister of the Green Ajah, had taken a secret lover!

The final line read, Barashelle raised her eyes and realised that she had grown tired of staring at the approach of what might prove to be her own death. She glanced over at the Cairn instead, looming at the edge of the _stedding_. Atop the long, stone-faced barrow, flapping at the end of a long pole, the White Flame of Tar Valon stood out embroidered on a large, silken flag. The Amyrlin's Banner – it would announce her presence to any who saw it. A horse-litter waited beneath it, surrounded by almost a dozen Aes Sedai sitting their horses, surrounded in turn by some thirty Warders. With all three thousand men of the Tower Guard surrounding _them_.

Barashelle grimaced. Her own Ajah Head was over there! She had seen Rhiannon Sedai only briefly – though even a moment in the presence of the hateful woman was not brief enough in her estimation! – and the Captain-General of the Green Ajah had been _furious_. This was hardly unusual, but for once, Barashelle had _not_ been the object of her fury! Rather, it had been the Amyrlin Seat. Even so, she was there, as commanded, with six of her strongest Green Sisters in attendance – the entire Battle Ajah Reserve of the Tower.

In addition, three Blue Sisters had accompanied them, though uninvited, each entrusted with an _angreal_ of great power by her Ajah (powerful enough to make any Green envious!) and though this trio of cool-eyed, arrogant women had but one Gaidin apiece, these men were among the best the Tower had to offer. Blues could be very choosy about their Warders...

Of necessity, for the coming battle the Aes Sedai needed to stand without the _stedding,_ in order to channel. The Cairn made a better position than most, as it lay just beyond the point where the mysterious aura of the place no longer affected them, yet close enough that a strategic retreat into the _stedding_ was still possible if things turned ill for the Tower contingent. For some reason, the Ogier always buried their dead beyond the borders of the _stedding_, but in any event, the Ogier that lay beneath the Cairn had largely been buried where they had fallen. Around the Waygate, which also of necessity, lay beyond the border of the _stedding_ – where the male Aes Sedai who created the Ways with the One Power could seize their tainted _saidin_.

The Dreadlord's army had swiftly descended on and surrounded Stedding Dantu, preventing calls for help from being sent. The Ogier had put up a stout defence. An entire Darkfriend Warband was slaughtered and several Trolloc Fists, driven into the _stedding_ by Myrddraal, themselves driven by the Dreadlord, were likewise annihilated, though at heavy cost. The Ogier held out for many days, but their losses had mounted and food stocks ran low. Clearly, the end was near…

So, one morning, the Ogier men had surrounded their women and children and marched out of the _stedding_ in a broad column, armed with axes and hammers, spears and scythes. Many of the Ogier women brandished long pruning-knives, though a few bore heavy books instead. Their destination was the Waygate. The Ogier men quickly killed the Darkfriends guarding it, then surrounded the passage into the Ways in a broad circle, as many times their number of Trollocs and Myrddraal attacked on all sides, as the Dreadlord cast fire into their ranks. The Ogier men stood their ground and fought, and died, giving up their lives to buy time for their mothers and wives and daughters to escape into the Ways. Wave after wave of Shadowspawn had broken against their shrinking ranks, but ultimately they had been overwhelmed.

As his last act, the surviving male Elder (the other two were dead by this point) had plucked the trefoil leaf from the outside of the Waygate and tossed it through the closing gates to Elder Fareya, the last to retreat into the Ways. A black, Thakan'dar-forged blade had taken him in the throat – but it was too late for the Myrddraal to follow the Ogier women into the Ways and complete the massacre. The Waygate was sealed from the inside.

Now, it was buried beneath tons of earth and stone also.

Barashelle hoped that it would not be bad luck, to fight their battle from atop what was, after all, a massive tomb. She squinted at a flurry of movement up there. One of the Green Sisters was riding away from the horse-litter, three Warders splitting-off from the main body of Gaidin to follow her down past the Tower Guard, heading for the small hill where Barashelle waited next to the head of the Dreadlord.

As Tamasin rode up, trailed by her Gaidin, Barashelle realised that she was still holding the love-poem and hastily refolded and concealed it in her hand, before turning a smooth gaze on her fellow Sister of the Battle Ajah. She tapped her heels and the placid chestnut gelding walked forward to meet them.

For some reason, Tamasin had a large, golden belt buckled over her drab green woollens. It really did not suit her… Barashelle nodded to the older Green.

"That is a fine-looking belt…" _though not on you! _Really, had the dratted woman nothing better to do than pick herself out gaudy accoutrements?

"It is no mere belt, regardless of your compliment. A compliment that I note was aimed at the belt rather than _me_." Tamasin's superior smile conveyed that she had forgotten more about twisting the First Oath into her own version of truth than Barashelle would ever know! Barashelle frowned, though not as much as she once would have, and Tamasin relented. "It is a _ter'angreal _that the Amyrlin has entrusted me with, should channelling be required within the _stedding_."

"Is this _really_ her intent?" Barashelle demanded, completely ignoring the fact that channelling within a _stedding_ was supposed to be impossible, "does the Mother truly mean to stand with us here, and face the onslaught?"

"It would seem so." Tamasin lowered her cowl, staring at the black swarm of Shadowspawn that covered the distant hills, flowing steadily toward them. "I have just come from trying to convince the Mother otherwise, a final attempt at making her see reason and ride south while there is still time." Tamasin glanced at Barashelle. "Her answer? She told me to fetch the 'fool girl' and return to my station before she set a penance that would make me envy _you!_"

Despite herself, Barashelle snorted with rather horsy laughter. Tamasin chuckled, then stared up into the sky. "There it is again," she muttered, "vile thing."

Barashelle looked upwards, knowing what she would see. The Draghkar circled, high overhead. A few of the Aramaelle horse-archers had taken shots at it earlier, but their arrows had fallen short. It was too far up to hit with a fireball either, unless several of them linked, but they needed to harbour their strength for the coming battle, in any case. The Draghkar was not capable of telling its Dreadlord anything that was not known already, but she disliked the feel of its eyes on her, even so.

Tamasin glanced at Mandaelor's head with distaste, seemingly finding its display a barbaric gesture. But Anselan Gaidin was not _her_ Warder, it was for Barashelle to tell him to take it down. "It would seem that we are in store for an interesting day," she stated. "The scouts report that a female Dreadlord-General leads the Shadowspawn Host, with twelve lesser Dreadlords in attendance, riding beneath what is reputedly the Light-eating Banner of Ba'alzamon himself. She has jet-black hair arranged in two long braids, a thin face marred on the left cheek by a duelling-scar and very pale eyes." Barashelle's own eyes narrowed. Tamasin touched her dark-brown braids unconsciously, seeing to it that they hung neatly over each shoulder. "She wears a jewelled knife on her belt and carries a fluted ivory wand, with which she directs her troops."

Barashelle scowled. "Nestra!"

Nestra Velantin had been the kind of Battle Ajah Sister about whom songs were written, a war-heroine of the Tower who novices thought of when they first chose the Green Ajah in their hearts. She had also, since the age of thirteen, been a Friend of the Dark to the very core of her accursed soul. Her imminent betrayal by a double-agent, himself betrayed by a triple-agent, had occasioned her flight from the Tower, though only after stealing a powerful _sa'angreal_ from the warded chamber where it was kept. The guards, a young Green Sister and both of her Gaidin, were found murdered the next morning. This was bad enough – but Nestra's subsequent re-emergence as one of the Shadow's most capable Dreadlord-Generals, was a source of great shame to the Battle Ajah. Over the years, several Green Sisters had perished at her hands, whilst attempting to expiate that shame.

"Indeed. _Nestra._" Tamasin managed to fit a great deal of hatred into this name. Nestra Velantin was a native of Barashta, her own home-city, so she must feel the betrayal even deeper. She ran her fingers over the ivory hilt of her bejewelled Honour-Blade, the ceremonial knife that no woman of Barashta would be seen without. Barashelle knew what she was thinking about.

Though Aes Sedai were encouraged to view themselves as being of the White Tower and not the Nation of their birth, it was widely known amongst the Green Ajah that Tamasin and three other Battle Sisters from Barashta had once sworn a solemn Blood-Oath, cutting their palms with their razor-sharp Honour-Blades and pressing their hands together, mingling their blood as they vowed to avenge the slur against them represented by Nestra. Tamasin was the last of those Sisters to yet live – the others had all died attempting to fulfil this Oath. Nestra was a dangerous woman. And it seemed she still had that cursed _sa'angreal_ to make her even more dangerous! Tamasin had sworn to see it restored to the Tower, where it belonged – but only _after _she had taken it from Nestra's chill, lifeless fingers.

"I will see the traitor dead today, or die trying," Tamasin spat.

"As will I!" Barashelle held her head high, eyes flashing.

Tamasin gazed at the younger Aes Sedai for a moment, then nodded. "I had my doubts about you at first, Barashelle, but you have surprised me in these past months. I was impressed with your conduct yesterday. It is no easy thing, to face a Dreadlord. Especially an insane, rotting male Dreadlord! Even Reds who have trained and prepared for years have fled in terror when they met their first male channeller. You did not – although your foolish mare did." Tamasin nodded approvingly at the placid gelding which had lowered its head to chew a nettle. "I am glad to see that you finally took my advice, by the way…"

Barashelle pouted. It had not been _Tamasin's_ advice she had taken…

"Nevertheless, your assistance was timely. I do not think that we could have survived his attacks for much longer. Whatever made you think of using _that_ form?"

Barashelle, while she could barely Heal a bruise or use Fire to light a candle, was strong with Air and Water, had a decided Talent for conjuring the Mirror of Mists. Her illusions were always larger and more convincing than those most could manage. The young Aes Sedai on the prancing white mare had seemed to flicker and change shape… and the Dreadlord had screamed in horror as the sinuous beast with a lion's mane and golden claws reared up in front of him – breathing fire, of all things!

Barashelle shrugged. "Male channellers often go mad and think they're the Dragon – I thought I would show him a _real_ one!" Tamasin raised a sceptical eyebrow. Barashelle shrugged again. Tamasin frowned – she had already spoken to her at some length about all of that shrugging… "Not that they _are_ real," Barashelle added, "but I saw a picture in a book once, I think it might have been the design on the Kinslayer's Banner… the fire coming out of its mouth was _my_ idea, though…"

This was beside the point – the end result of the apparition was that the staring Dreadlord had fallen to his knees, sobbing and giggling at the same time. And the end result of _this_ was that Barashelle's high-strung mare had taken exception to the strange behaviour and bolted away, back toward their lines, Anselan grimly spurring his warhorse after.

_As t__he Dragon-monster seemed to run away from him, hotly pursued by one of the Warders, the Dreadlord rose unsteadily to his feet – by which time, he was in close company with an experienced Green Sister and her three Warders. Not a good position for a Dreadlord to find himself in. Tamasin knew better than to hesitate, Sisters who did so in this sort of a situation rarely survived long enough to regret it. Her fireball took the Dreadlord's arm off at the elbow and she slammed a shield between him and the Source for good measure. The raging madman's response was to laugh at her contemptuously, seemingly unaware that the stump of his left arm was pumping his life's blood out onto the ground. _

_Something powerful flexed against Tamasin's shield and she felt it begin to tear asunder. She was one of the strongest Aes Sedai the Tower had seen for centuries, but he was stronger. Much stronger. Her shield burst apart and the Dreadlord threw back his head and howled like a beast as raging, tainted saidin flowed into him. At which point, he found himself neatly and unexpectedly decapitated by Chulaan. While Torkil and Gwydion drove back the Dreadlord's surviving guards, those few who had not run when their master began to kill them, Chulaan had quietly slipped down from his horse to the rear, drawing his blade as he glided forward to take the Dreadlord's head off with a precise, two-handed blow. The staring, severed head rolled to a halt at Tamasin's feet. She smiled down into the eyes, eyelids still flickering a little._

"_Your time is done__, Eli," she muttered. One more name to remove from the lists. As for Nestra, who spies reported as leading the host to the north… her time would come soon, also. There was the blood of Aes Sedai and Gaidin on her hands, including the blood she had mingled with her three Sisters of Barashta. The last of them to fall, defended to the death by her young Warder, had been the Aes Sedai whom Barashelle had been forced to pass his Bond to. Tamasin had omitted to tell her which Dreadlord had killed young Kirwyn, it would have been impolitic. Barashelle might lose her head and do something stupid. Besides Nestra was _hers! _To a woman of Barashta, vengeance was something to be coveted, not shared..._

Tamasin regarded Barashelle levelly, then nodded. "I am pleased with your progress. Though it took you long enough to settle down, for you are a stubborn girl. I am glad to see that you have at last dispensed with that ridiculous mare-"

"Riverblossom did not _mean _to bolt, she was just alarmed by-"

"_Riverblossom?_ What sort of a name is _that_ for a war-horse?"

"Riverblossom is _not_ a war-horse," Barashelle smoothly pointed-out.

"Exactly! So the creature has no place on a battle-field! But have it your own way, young Barashelle. The Green Ajah has never had much use for women who do not stand up for themselves – even when they are _wrong!_ Yes, I would say that in spite of everything, you are one of us now. You have been blooded in your first fight… you are finally become a true Sister of the Battle Ajah."

Tamasin's Warders drew their swords and rattled them loudly against their shields and bucklers in approbation. Barashelle lowered her eyes, blushing.

"I merely do my duty, Tamasin," she muttered, "no more, no less."

"You do it well. Why, with another fifty years seasoning, you may even-"

There was a loud screech of pain from above. They looked up in time to see the Draghkar cartwheeling down, a large arrow projecting from its chest. It landed heavily fifty paces away, twitching and then lying still. Dai Buie lowered his longbow, unstrung it with a deft movement and resumed walking up the hill towards them, tucking the bowstring into his pocket. Barashelle stared at the Captain of the Archery Banner as he came trudging over the brow and paused at the top, breathing a little heavily, leaning on his yew staff. He bowed crookedly.

"A good morning to you, Battle-Sisters," he muttered, gruffly.

"Captain Buie, I believe?" acknowledged Tamasin. "A fine shot."

The old Captain-of-Archers was a Manetherener, Barashelle had been told. Strange that he should approach them, he and his men usually avoided Aes Sedai as though they carried some dread contagion.

"An _easy_ shot, Aes Sedai. I see the Amyrlin has raised her banner over there… would you mind telling me your dispositions, now?" The words were half-addressed to Tamasin's Warders, and since such matters were more their purview, she indicated to them that they should answer.

Torkil Gaidin responded with Tairen formality. "Under personal command of the Mother, the Sisters of the Battle Ajah and those Blue Sisters who ride with them will make their stand at the top of the Cairn, beneath the Amyrlin's standard."

"The Tower Guard will be dismounted, forming a line of defence at the base of the position under the command of your namesake," added Gwydion Gaidin. "Is Guard-Captain Buie your younger brother, might I enquire?"

"Second-cousin once-removed on my da's side."

Gwydion nodded sagely. Though Coremandan, he had some Manetheren blood in him and was familiar with the complex interrelations of its extended families.

"And the Ogier Guard wish to stand with us also," finished Chulaan Gaidin, tonelessly. He was looking forward to fighting alongside the Builders, he had told Barashelle. They seemed to hate the Shadow almost as much as he did…

The Captain-of-Archers nodded, as though coming to a decision. "Then I'll put my boys in a ring above your Tower lads, so they can shoot downwards while your lot hold the line." Turning, he began to leave.

"Captain Buie?" Tamasin heeled her horse forward a little as the gnarled old man turned, gazing up at her with his dark, hooded eyes. "It was my understanding that the General wished to distribute his Archers along the _stedding_ perimeter?"

"Aye, Aes Sedai, but I just had a word with his Lordship and we both agree the Mother's defence is more important. Besides, he has more than enough bowmen with all those Aramaelle boys he's dismounted, he doesn't need us." This was patently untrue, but Tamasin, with a far-away look in her eyes, said nothing.

_As a young novice, Tamasin had once stared wide-eyed at a__ raggedly-dressed, bent old woman with a face like death, slowly pushing a mop over the flagstones of the parlour behind the Refectory kitchens – had stared at Tetsuan, once of the Red Ajah, deposed from the Amyrlin Seat and stilled for her betrayal of Manetheren. A deep and abiding shame, that all Aes Sedai shared._

"The Tower failed your Nation, Captain Buie. We both know it, though it is little spoken of. It is very good of you to come to the aid of the Amyrlin Seat in this way…" Tamasin's statement undoubtedly held a note of query.

Dai Buie shrugged, noncommittal. "Ah, well, it has been long enough to hold a grudge, you have to let bygones be bygones eventually…" He grinned toothlessly. "Besides, we may not be much of a bramble to the Dark One's hand anymore, let alone a thorn in his foot – but it may be that here, at the end of it all, we can still manage to be a thistle up his rear!"

Cackling, the old Captain of Archers strode away down the hill, his yew stave propped across his shoulders, a full quiver bouncing on his hip. A long line of men was marching out from the _stedding_, wearing leather armour buckled over drab woollens. While most carried their unstrung longbows in their hands, a tall fellow at the front had the stave on his back and carried a long pole instead, a flapping standard embroidered in red with the Badge of the Two Fingers. Captain Buie raised his stave, waved it in a circle, then pointed it at the Cairn. The line of archers turned towards it.

"True Blood of Manetheren," the watching Gaidin chorused, respectfully.

"What a rude banner!" Barashelle commented. Tamasin sighed.

An olive uniformed rider wearing a fancloth cloak appeared from the north, returning from his scout. The pounding drums had grown louder, the Trollocs closer.

"Ah, here comes your Warder…" Tamasin nodded at the Dreadlord's head. "Could you not tell him to take the beastly thing down?"

Barashelle had been sensing his approach through the Bond for some time. She shook her head. "He was going to stick a whole bunch of Myrddraal heads on spikes all around it too, but I refused to let him," she explained, "I had to allow him the Dreadlord's head and the sign to make up for it, though."

Tamasin shook her head despairingly. "You need to let your Gaidin know in no uncertain terms who is in command," she snapped, "you don't _negotiate!_"

Gwydion and Torkil grinned at each other briefly before resuming stony inscrutability, Chulaan simply looked thoughtful. He had helped Anselan make his sign, after all. Perhaps he considered that the Myrddraal heads, garnered from the previous day's battlefield, would have looked aesthetically pleasing.

Anselan Gaidin walked his horse swiftly up the hill, pausing at the top, exchanging nods with the other Gaidin. His cold, black eyes slid over Barashelle. _Another _severed head (the man definitely had a penchant for the things!) hung from the saddle by its lank, dark hair, the face corpse-pale and eyeless, teeth still bared in a snarl of hatred. Clearly, at some point on his patrol, Anselan had encountered a lone Myrddraal rider.

Barashelle scowled at her Warder. "You are late!" she snapped, "did you see anything out of the ordinary?"

Anselan shook his head, then pointed back at the approaching horde and briefly mimed beating on kettle drums with both hands, before putting them over his ears and scowling. A smile might have made the gestures seem comical – but Anselan never smiled. Perhaps he had forgotten how to.

"Yes, the drums _are_ rather noisy," Tamasin agreed.

Anselan raised the Myrddraal's head by its hair, eyed his Aes Sedai askance and made an interrogative sound.

Barashelle shook her own head firmly, then pointed at the staring, disfigured face of Eli Mandaelor. "_That's_ enough heads. He can stay. But no more."

Anselan shrugged and tossed the Myrddraal's head carelessly away, so that it tumbled and rolled down the low hill, disappearing beneath a bush. He had probably gone out of his way to chase-down and kill the creature. If any man had a good reason to dislike Fades, perhaps even more than Chulaan did, it was Anselan.

The Myrddraal who had murdered Anselan's first Aes Sedai, many years before, should have swiftly slain him too while he was helpless, since the shock of feeling her death through the Bond had rendered him unconscious. He had killed the first two Myrddraal attackers, but the third Lurk had slipped out of the shadows behind them. He should have died, and might have afterwards, but his hatred had kept him alive, Barashelle believed. Instead of killing him outright, the Fade had elected to torture the captured Warder to death instead, since this was one of the ways in which its fraternity amused themselves. This diversion had proved to be a substantial mistake. Having two of its fingers bitten off had given the Myrddraal pause – driven berserk with agony, Anselan had then broken his bonds and killed his tormentor with his bare hands. But only _after_ his tongue had been cut out.

"Well, I suppose that we should go and take our places for the final pattern-dance," Tamasin muttered, turning her gelding back toward the Cairn and starting down the hill, her Warders following.

Anselan's eyes flicked to Barashelle, a sudden warmth in his previously cold gaze and for a moment, so quickly that it might have been imagined, the grim line of his mouth relaxed – the closest he ever came to smiling. As she heeled her gelding past, Barashelle took advantage of the others having their backs turned to swiftly raise the folded note, brushing her lips against the love-poem with a meaningful glance before tucking it back into her glove. A glance directed at Anselan. Once, her secret admirer. Now… her lover.

Anselan's grim features did not so much as flicker, but she felt his pleasure at the compliment through the Bond… and knew that she would find another note beneath her pillow that night. He was better placed to leave them there since he had begun sharing her bed! He wrote her a new poem every day, each more moving and romantic than the last… not to mention _complimentary_ – were her eyes _truly_ 'shimmering pools of moonlit dew, a skein of silver lost in ebon depths?' Poetic licence aside, Anselan certainly seemed to think so, and when he described _other_ parts of her anatomy, he had the skill for combining aesthetic tastefulness with a pleasing hint of flattering lechery! His command of the High Chant was truly masterful. It had astonished her when she finally discovered who the passionate verse was coming from – Anselan's rough exterior hid the soul of a Poet!

This was not all that was hidden. Barashelle's last romantic involvement with a Warder had been disastrous. If Tamasin even suspected what was going on… if the _Amyrlin_ found out… Barashelle had been forced to pass a Bond to another Aes Sedai once before – she would not go through _that_ again. The lengths to which they went to hide their love! Anselan's seizing of the bridle yesterday, her angrily pulling it away – play-acting! Pure theatre! They performed a scene such as this every day (it had become a sort of game for them) to indicate to the others – when the opposite was true – that she hated the Warder to whom she had been bound.

Though this had certainly been the case in the early days, when she had thought of the man as a sort of gaoler, and a bloody ill-favoured one at that! Barashelle blushed to think of how terribly she had treated Anselan at first – though he had borne her cruel insults and rageful tantrums with equanimity – but she had been a fool, and he had been patient with her. And, as much to his surprise as hers, in love with her also! Now, Barashelle loved Anselan deeply… though it had taken time, as well as poetry, to make her realise it.

In their tent at dawn, as they lay together, Anselan had expressed his feelings. Once he could have done so in soft, mellifluous tones, with a voice made for pleasing song and declaiming High-Chant. Now, his hands moved swiftly, in the complex language of signs he had taught her.

Anselan had not always been a Warder, though his House had sent its sons to the Tower (as well as those daughters who could channel) for almost as long as there had _been_ a Tower. His life had followed a different course than that of his older brother, Gaidin to a Sister of the Blue Ajah – both fallen while defending the Stone, in the Final Siege of Tear.

Anselan had not wished to go to Tar Valon and put on the fancloth cloak worn by so many men of his House – but it was expected of him. Duty was heavy as a mountain, and besides, mother had told him to. Her Ladyship was not a woman who could be argued with, particularly by one of her sons, who she had trained to obedience from an early age, like a falconer with a peregrine chick. It would not have been honourable to make an effort so doomed to failure in any case. This was the way with Borderland mothers – if their eldest son fell in the never-ending War with the Shadow, they would grieve awhile, then send the next-eldest to replace him. Bordermen were hard as ice – but their women, by comparison, made them look soft as snow. So, Anselan had hung-up his harp, kissed his mother on the cheek in farewell and gone to the White Tower. Though he had, at least, had the chance to live another life and see some of the world before becoming a Warder.

While his older brother went to train at the White Tower, Anselan had studied to become a Sword-Bard of the exiled Court of Mafal Dadaranell, though the City of Domes was long-gone, its beautiful Ogier-built palaces with their striped, onion-shaped cupolas reduced to shattered ruins long before his birth. He had journeyed far through the Borderlands, playing his harp where music was wanted, lending his blade where killing was needed, but serving no one but himself.

Anselan had even travelled east through the Niamh Pass and lived for a while amongst the Aiel, who were always welcoming of a bard or a peddler, if no-one else. Particularly a Trolloc. The Shadow's invasion of the Aiel Waste had been a last ditch attempt to open a new front elsewhere, and had failed monumentally. He had seen the vast battlefields of the Dying Ground, seen the long lines of tall, light-eyed warriors push spears deep into the Trolloc hordes who had trespassed into the Three-Fold Land, which was theirs and theirs alone – he had seen Shadowspawn slaughtered and routed on a scale that no Army of the Ten Nations had ever accomplished.

Though they enjoyed Anselan's ballads enough to not want to lose him to a Trolloc's axe or a Myrddraal's sword, his Aiel hosts had felt compelled to invite him to 'join the dance' (as they casually put it) since in their estimation, it might dishonour the wetlander to not be included. Though they disapproved of his long, two-handed blade, Anselan had fought well enough for them to accord him a high-honour – he would be made an honorary member of one of their Warrior Societies, that of the Clan-Chief himself.

So, in a night-long ritual that involved copious amounts of chanting, minor blood-letting and _oosquai_, Anselan had been inducted into the ranks of the feared _Sovin Nai_ – in addition to being a Sword-Bard of Aramaelle, he was now a Knife-Hand of the Aiel! His new society-brothers had taught him much of killing without weapons, and also tutored him in the complex language of signs they used between each other when there were listeners of other Societies close by – each Warrior Society had its own jealously-guarded sign-language, and except for the hand-talk used incessantly by the Maidens of the Spear, that of the Knife Hands was the most complex. Though he had learnt it simply to please his Aiel comrades, after returning from the Waste to find his brother dead and duty calling, Anselan had not thought he would ever need to use the sign-language again. It was odd, what life and fate often held in store for you…

Barashelle's large, dark eyes watched Anselan's hands move as she lay with her cheek pressed to his broad chest, feeling it rise and fall, listening to the steady rhythm of his heart-beat. He had been surprised at the speed with which she had learnt the signs, even refining them and adding finger-movements for words that the Aiel did not customarily use. 'Horse' for example, taking the sign for 'goat' and crooking the thumb a _little_ more…

_B__eloved, you must choose another horse for the battle. The mare is not war-trained and never will be. The Guard brought remounts from the Tower stables. I will pick you out a safer animal._

"But I _want_ to ride Riverblossom – she is so swift and graceful!"

_I do not care if I fall today__. But I will not have the love of my life thrown from her mount. I will not see her head broken open upon a stone. I would not long survive you in any case…_

Barashelle pouted a little, then sighed. "Very well," she muttered into his chest, her voice slightly muffled. Anselan gave her an approving squeeze and she snuggled closer against him. Curse it, she could refuse the man nothing!

Barashelle closed her eyes. "I love you, Anselan," she murmured softly, drifting slowly back into sleep. Unseen, Anselan's hands continued to sign.

_I love you, Barashelle__. My heart was cold as deepest winter in the Borderlands when first I saw you. Your love melted my pain, as the warmth of the spring sun's rays turn a dead glacier to a living waterfall. If this day brings my death, then it will be a small thing, as light as a feather, for I will have loved and been loved before I died…_

The Trolloc horde swelled on the horizon, marching beneath a banner so dark that it seemed to devour the daylight. But as the sun slowly rose overhead, the long shadows shrank away to nothing, indicating that here at least, the Light might prevail.


	6. 5: At World's End

**_* welcome to the middle of the film! sorry, I could not resist! & it is a tale not a moving-picture, unfortunately, & the gist of the story that has been told thus far by the foolish Gleeman is this..._**

* * *

_Our Heroine is the Lady Ellythia of House Desiama, a young yet formidable Aes Sedai of the Blue Ajah. She has the classic look of a southern noblewoman, slim & slight of build, with very pale skin & large, dark, liquid eyes that gaze with cool regard from beneath the arched, feathery brows which often add emphasis to her measured, carefully-chosen words. Though her words when angry are less selective! Though of the White Tower, the Lady Ellythia still wears her nape-length chestnut locks in the ringlets fashionable amongst the female Nobility of her homeland, a sole concession to its customs. _

_The Lady Ellythia, Aes Sedai, is also (paradoxically) the sole daughter of one of Amadicia's oldest Houses, who for a thousand years have sent their sons to war resplendent in the white cloak relieved by golden sunburst & knots of rank of a Lord-Officer of the Children of Light. Her involuntary channelling of Fire beneath the Dome of Truth itself lead to her exile forever from home & family... though not her execution as a witch, since her powerful family connections & the fact that she had saved the Lord-Commander of the Children from a Darkfriend assassin in so doing were too great a shield for even the ruthless & relentless Questioners of the Hand to overcome. The young Lady Ellythia was subsequently sent to the 'the City of the Witches' by her father, the stern Lord Guye, Patriarch of House Desiama... & she did not go willingly. _

_Her 'Whitecloak' heritage has not made Ellythia Sedai popular in the famed Tower of that hue, unsurprisingly... though she rarely visits the Island City & soon leaves when she does, unless a particularly gruelling penance from her Ajah delays her overlong, as it has on this occasion. But that is finally done-with... & clearly, her destiny awaits._

_Ellythia Sedai has departed Tar Valon fanfare-less, with her seasoned Warder, Atual Aendwyn, riding in his accustomed place at the van, but without the permission of either Amyrlin or Ajah, as ever. Their journey, the latest of many such (if more arduous than usual & bereft of their accustomed travelling companions) will take them to the far north-west of the Land, to the ocean-carved iron coast of Saldaea. Where, beneath a broken crag, a Stasis Box of the Age of Legends has long lain dormant, waiting for three-&-one-half millennia to pass & a Prediction of the fabled Aelfinn to be fulfilled. Dormant, it lies... dormant, but not dead._

_Ellythia Sedai & Atual Gaidin seek a mysterious artefact, supposedly hidden by an ancient male Aes Sedai during the early years of the Breaking of the World. Ellyth (as her friends know her) has a minor lost Talent... she can sense the location & strength of any ter'angreal in her vicinity, though without knowledge of its original function. The proud Blue Sister has commensurately adopted the finding & recovering of lost ter'angreal as her particular Cause. This Talent has most recently unearthed a mysterious crystaline ter'angreal in an abandoned Ogier stedding just south of the Arafelin Blightborder._

_Ellyth's Warder is Atual Aendwyn of Far Madding, a seasoned Gaidin twice the age of 'the Mistress' who fought in the Aiel War, surviving four years of slaughter only to take a mortal wound from a Maiden of the Spear in the final day of the Blood Snow, upon the lower slopes of Dragonmount. Atual Gaidin stood Warder to the Yellow Sister who found and Healed him, partly because she had saved his life, after all, but also because he liked her and she asked politely. After taking the Bond, Atual served Milona faithfully for nearly fifteen years... before the motherly Aes Sedai died a tragic death within one of the Tower's many unknown ter'angreal - an untried and very dangerous presumed healing-device. Atual Gaidin therefore strongly disapproves of his second Aes Sedai meddling with untested ter'angreal. She has already had one narrow escape after all, with a coma-inducing ter'angreal she found in Caemlyn._

_Atual Gaidin is tall & powerfully built, with grey, flinty eyes & the stern, hard features of a twenty-year man of the Tower Gaidin. Though he loathes the City of his birth, he still wears his dark hair long & loose, in the customary style of Far Madding men, falling down his back as far as his belt and held in place with a variety of fine precious-metal clips. He uses a power-wrought blade that he won from its previous owner, an Altaran blade-master who foolishly challenged him though they had a common enemy at the time... the Whitecloaks. Atual does not consider Ellyth to be anything other than a loyal servant of the Tower, as is he. He is proud to serve the Mistress, who he considers to be the perfect Blue Ajah Sister in every respect._

_Ellyth's two best (& only) friends in the White Tower are;_

_Shrinalla Tolamani of the Green Ajah, a tall, red-headed, green-eyed young lady from Falme, first encountered by Ellyth on board a storm-tossed Atha'an Meire craft months before they signed the novice-book together... a pair of moderately-powerful Wilders on their reluctant way to a White Tower that would almost certainly not be happy to see them. Shrina Sedai still has a rather wild nature & has even studied the blade, often sparring with her identical-twin Warders, Aebel & Blaek Faruile, who hail from the tiny City-state of Mayene. The three of them usually ride with Ellyth Sedai and Atual Gaidin on their long journeys, partly out of companionship & an equal desire to be somewhere other than the White Tower, but also because Shrina has an obsession - since the age of three, she has wished fervently to hunt for the Horn of Valere! Since the Horn is positively a ter'angreal, Shrina's thinking is that her best-friend Ellyth (with whom she has absolutely nothing in common & yet loves her like the sister she never had) will surely sense it somewhere eventually, if they only cover enough ground! _

_and also;_

_Renn Faltrey of the Brown Ajah, a voloptuous-yet-married Aes Sedai with golden brown eyes, often hidden by her unruly spikes of pale hair. Renn Sedai has been a friend to Ellyth & Shrina since all three girls were novices together, meeting them on their first day in the White Tower. Renn's marriage is supposed to be a secret, for she wed her Atha'an Meire Warder, Jabal din Sudim Lionfish, in a clandestine Sea Folk ceremony - she does not wish her mother, or the Mother, or anyone else for that matter, to find out... what she has done is not forbidden, exactly, but neither would it be viewed favourably. _

_Renn Sedai has another, greater secret... from an early age, she has had a Talent or gift (she is not sure which)... she can psychically enter the consciousness of a bird or animal, controlling its will, seeing through its eyes & hearing through its ears. There are few secrets of the Tower that Renn cannot put her considerable skills to finding-out, though her espionage is always benevolent investigation on behalf of her friends, as is her trawling through dusty & ancient archives in search of lost ter'angreal lore, when they ask her to. _

_In a way, Renn acts as a 'researcher' for Ellyth & Shrina, often digging up ancient knowledge of places where ter'angreals might be found - useful ter'angreals... weapons with which to fight the Last Battle, to be stockpiled for that eventuality, though Ellyth hopes that she will be long dead by the day of Tarmon Gai'don... whereas Shrina has always been convinced that it will begin tomorrow! Renn listens to her friends argue with half an ear, while she does one of the many things that she does best... wipes the thick dust from cracked, leather covers and attempts to decipher a dozen different styles & forms of the ancient, written Old Tongue._

_This time, Renn's search yields one tiny fragment of information that has miraculously survived both the destruction of the Trolloc Wars & the century of chaos marking the death of the High King. It is an ancient scrap of chora-tree bark salvaged from the same Arafelin stedding as where the Crystal lay hid for so long - the only holding of the Ogier ever to fall to the onslaught of the Shadow. Inscribed on the bark in undecipherable Alantin-Runes is a description of a strange encounter during the Breaking... and a skillful rendering of the Crystal ter'angreal. Fortunately, a translation was also saved, revealing that the Crystal ter'angreal was hidden by the Ogier at the request of a 'madman' who then took poison. Ellyth & Shrina found a man's skull & bones buried with the Crystal, preserved for millennia in the peaty soil._

_With the help of Renn's Sea Folk Gaidin (& husband) Ellyth determines that the Crystal, which produces a flickering crimson light when a thin flow of Spirit is channelled into it, is compass-like, and always indicates a particular direction... though not due north. Ellyth also hears some unwelcome news from Renn - she will be journeying with her Warder, but without her best friend, for Shrina has instead opted to go to Illian to swear the Hunter's Oath in Tammaz Square... questing for the Horn of Valere might seem an unusual occupation for even a young and headstrong Aes Sedai of the Battle Ajah... and it is!_

_Renn reveals that Shrina left swiftly when she heard that the Hunt had been called, before Ellyth could return from serving a penance in the small dairy-village of Dorlan. Shrina was well-aware that the more dutiful Ellyth would have attempted to talk her out of such a rash and ill-considered plan - probably, with success. But another motivation existed for the flight to Illian, for Renn adds that shortly before her abrupt departure, Shrina spoke with a strangely-dressed girl sent to Tar Valon by Moiraine Sedai, a gifted individual who reportedly sees 'visions.' Elmindreda of Baerlon saw a 'Horn' floating over Shrina's head, though almost certainly not the Horn of Valere, since it was cast of brass or bronze... while many tales differ on minor points, there is not one story of the Legend of Valere that does not describe the fabled Horn as 'golden.' _

_In a subsequent interview with 'just Min' Ellyth discovers that her own destiny is entwined with that which lies hidden somewhere to the far north-west, in Saldaea or beyond. A living weapon of the Age of Legends, to which the Crystal guides the way, seemingly. But what is it? A man? A weapon? A man who is a weapon... a weapon that is a man..? _

_The Vision is uncertain, but combined with Ellyth's memories from the final time she walked through the silver arches of the Testing ter'angreal whilst earning her Serpent Ring... compelling. On holding the Crystal, Ellyth knew that she had held it before, albeit in a strange reflection of the World within the Wheel... awakened memories of a barren environment... a shattered cliff looming above, twin rock spurs rising horn-like to either side... and something coffin-like, yet shining with a cold, white light, too intense to look on, hidden deep beneath the ground. And Shadowspawn, also..._

_It is late summer in the nine-hundred & ninety-eighth year of the New Era... and there are yet few alive aware that the Dragon has been Reborn & the Last Battle is coming... that once more, the Lord of the Morning walks abroad in the land, as He did before & will again, Wheel without end. _

* * *

_Here stand I at the edge of the World_

_My Sword is sheathed and__ my Banner furled_

_Unto the waves__ my Crown I've hurled –_

_f__or there's no more land to conquer!_

**from ****"Hawkwing's Lament" by Roth Blucha, Gleeman**

* * *

_**C**__**hapter 5 * At World's End**_

This time, the chill wind carried, along with the taint of the Blight, an amount of salt also. From the distance came the muted roar and boom of breakers, crashing against the jagged cliffs that swept down to the Aryth Ocean. High, stone peaks rose on all sides, enormous teeth jutting up to bite the heavens, broken in places by narrow, winding passes. Nothing grew here, but for low, hardy, gale-twisted trees. This place was well-named. It did seem as though they had come to the very end of the world.

Ellyth shivered, not entirely from the cold, and pressed her heels into Eradore's sides. The mare quickened her pace. She tugged the cowl of her cloak down a little lower, framing her Warder between the folds of cloth. She found the craggy scenery somewhat disconcerting and wished to block it out for a while, focusing instead on the comfortingly familiar. There was something reassuring about the sight of Atual's broad back, swathed in fancloth, swaying back and forth as he walked Caba slowly and steadily up the cracked surface of the ancient road.

Atual's long, dark hair was currently bound back at his nape with the obsidian clip that she had given him on his last Nameday, a distinctive, Ogier-carved design, intricately worked with vines and leaves. Though fine work, she did not like it on him so much as the filigreed silver clip she had given him the year before, or the golden design studded with opals he had received the year before _that_, but Atual only wore his best hair-clips on Feast days. Out here, where they wished to avoid unwelcome notice, something that might reflect sunlight for some distance was to be avoided.

Ellyth was holding the Source and the keener eyesight that came with her other heightened senses made her abruptly aware of silvery streaks in her Warder's long, dark mane that had not been there when they left Tar Valon. She would not have been surprised to discover that the experiences of the last few months had given _her_ a few grey hairs also!

Sensing her gaze, perhaps catching a hint of what held her attention through the Bond, Atual swivelled in the saddle, staring back at his Aes Sedai with wintry grey eyes. He smiled crookedly. "I know, Mistress," he muttered, "you don't have to tell me – I'm getting _old!_"

Ellyth's dark, liquid eyes narrowed a little, her feathery brows drawing down in a frown… but she could not help her lips from quirking in a small smile, resulting in a somewhat contradictory expression! She tapped her booted heels briskly into Eradore's sides, the graceful mare trotting forward, and reined-in alongside Atual. There was just room for them to walk their horses side by side on the ancient pathway. She reached out, taking a long lock of his hair between slender fingers, holding it up to the dim sun-light, pretending to examine it critically.

"I believe that it looks rather distinguished," she murmured, letting the hair drop back against Atual's colour-shifting cloak, "perhaps it will _all _turn silver?"

"Knowing my luck, only _half_ will and I'll end-up looking like a flaming badger!" Atual's grin said that he did not particularly care, either way.

Ellyth smiled back, raising her eyebrows. "Do you wish to retire from my service, O aged Gaidin? Perhaps I could provide you with a small farm somewhere?"

"I have no talent for growing things, I neglect to water them and they always die. I could, in stead, continue in your service as overseer of the famous salt-mine? Perhaps I might be permitted to whip the laggard miners, by way of diversion?"

"They already have a fellow to do that for them, I would expect… no, you shall just have to go and join Hammar Gaidin and Coulin Gaidin in _their_ endeavours!"

"I do not think I would like that, Mistress…"

"Mmm. I expect that you would not. Presumably, I would have to find myself a _younger_ Warder, yes? Someone to accompany me on my long journeys, since my grey-haired, superannuated Gaidin would be spending his declining years in the practice-yard, teaching ham-handed boys which end of the sword is _dangerous!_"

"A fate far worse than death, Mistress. Just kill me now and be done with it!"

Ellyth smiled and took Atual's gauntleted hand, giving it a squeeze, a rare display of affection from the rather prim young woman.

"You bear my honour, Atual Gaidin, you always have. And you always will."

Atual smiled back, a rare, warm, even _gentle_ expression for those stern, forbidding features. He opened his mouth, perhaps to point-out that his young Mistress might have several Warders in her long life (they would be instrumental in seeing to it that she lived so long!) and should not be overly attached to her first. He had done so before, despite the angry, denying reception his words had received!

Instead, Atual's flinty eyes widened and he reined-in with one hand while grabbing Ellyth's bridle with the other, pulling the horses to an abrupt halt. Caba snorted and tossed his head, to indicate his displeasure. Eradore whickered in protest. Did their riders _really _think that they were stupid enough as to have kept walking?

The exchange of words, and the road itself, came to an end at the same time. Young Aes Sedai and mature Warder gazed down into the deep chasm that opened beneath their feet. Ellyth though that she could see water moving, far down there. The base of the range of peaks jutting out into the Aryth Ocean, known to all as World's End, ever since the Breaking (which had created this odd terrain in the first place) was riddled with caves and fissures, through which the sea often entered.

"Well now. No more road, then."

"We shall have to find another way, Atual. If only you had not killed our guide… or at least had him draw-up some kind of a map _before_ you…"

Atual was eyeing her levelly. Ellyth sighed.

"Yes, I know. It would only have been more falsehood…"

Atual scanned their surroundings. "We will have to go around… the valley on the left seems to lead down to another pass…" His eyes narrowed. "I do not like being up this high, for all to see… there is someone following us, and whoever they are, they're _good_… I would have found them by now, else."

Ellyth raised her eyebrows. Atual had backtracked a few times and returned in an angry mood. Anyone who could confound his woodcraft and avoid his search… she did not like to think of the level of expertise and stealth _that_ would require.

Atual shrugged. "I do not think it is our guide's _friends_," he muttered, emphasising the word. He meant the Darker kind of Friend, clearly, though Ellyth was still unsure about that. "I would have found _them_, easily enough, I always have before, even in Haddon Mirk itself… but I have seen birds circling where they should not, I have smelt wood-smoke, though no trace of a campfire…" He shook his head angrily, dislodging some silvered locks of dark hair from the obsidian clip.

"You do not suppose it is the peculiar fellow we encountered near the Saldaean border?" Atual glanced at Ellyth, considering. That had been months ago. It was unlikely. "You seemed to think that there might be more than one of them? And did not Lord Bashere's scout say that he had seen a savage also?"

"Well, whoever it is skulking back there, they can go to the Pit! If they meant us harm, they would certainly have tried something by now. That is not the issue…" Atual gestured at their bleak surroundings. "I do not like this place. I like even less having brought you here, Mistress. World's End is avoided for good reason… some say it is cursed."

Ellyth sniffed, disparagingly. And produced the Crystal, the _ter'angreal_ that had lead them here, from her belt-pouch. She channelled a thin flow of Spirit and the crimson light pulsed, as ever. Though now it flashed much faster than it had back at the White Tower and in Arafel, flickering rapidly, indicating the direction that lay dead-ahead of them. On the other side of the deep chasm.

Their eyes moved in that direction. It was up there, it must be, the weapon with which Aes Sedai might fight the Last Battle… and if their long, interrupted journey had taught them anything, it was that Tarmon Gai'don might be coming far sooner than anyone dared think. The signs were there, for all to see.

Ellyth shook her head. Her Cause had never seemed more important to her than it did now. She was so close! The light was definitely flickering faster than it had a week ago – its frequency had increased, the further they had come. She theorised that when it ceased to pulse at all, remaining steady – _then_ they would be there. Then, they would see.

"Well, Atual," Ellyth pointed-out, "World's End is certainly a forbidding and disquieting place… but there are curses and there are curses, after all… we can be glad, at least, that the Crystal did not lead us directly to Shadar Logoth!"

Atual snorted and turned Caba to one side, taking a winding path down to the valley below. Ellyth tapped her heels into Eradore's sides, following, tucking the Crystal back into her pouch.

From the jagged crags above, a single, blue eye watched them closely.

* * *

The young Aes Sedai and her Warder were camped for the night beside the Maradon road, in a grove of trees that had obviously been used for that purpose before, judging by the traces of old fires. They had encountered few travellers, but for the occasional peddler. The road was little used, and in poor repair. Saldaean merchants usually sent their goods south via Bandar Eban and the coastal routes, or down the great river Arinelle. But those going the other way all carried the same grim news, which they were happy to share with the two riders whom they presumed to be a Noblewoman and her Horse-Master, since both serpent-ring and fancloth cloak had spent the entirety of the journey in their saddlebags. Bad news spread more quickly than good, it seemed, and each peddler had swiftly shared the fact that there was currently a man doing his best to tear Saldaea apart – and his name was Mazrim Taim.

After leaving Tar Valon, they had been on the road to Maradon for nearly a month, a route that wound slowly up through the Black Hills, sometimes passing a lonely village but mostly travelling through uninhabited wilderness, the occasional tumbled stones of an abandoned farm or manor house indicating that folk had once lived here, herded cattle, tended crops. Sometimes the ruins were much older, the remains of a summer-palace or watch-tower destroyed in the War of a Hundred Years, or even the Trolloc Wars before that. Though some traces of the past went back even further, to the Age of Legends itself…

The previous week, they had ridden past a massive golden spire, projecting at an angle from the side of a hill. It glowed in the dark sometimes, apparently, and Atual had mentioned that the spirits of the dead were often seen loitering about the base of the odd structure, which Ellyth considered to be a ridiculous fancy. Though she had made them ride an extra five miles that night, so they would not be camped within sight of the thing. Ellyth did not want her Warder to be nervous, Atual had a superstitious streak… of course, she did not believe in ghosts herself.

Even so, it had been a singular sight. Ellyth wished Shrina had been with them, to see it also. Though she would probably just have claimed to have viewed something grander and more impressive on one of her voyages out to the Aile Dashar, or some such nonsense… Ellyth missed her Green Ajah friend, the long journey had not been the same without her. Though it has certainly been quieter! Wherever she was, she hoped Shrina was safe… though a Hunter of the Horn rarely lacked for danger.

Ellyth glanced at the horses. Caba and Eradore stood placidly beneath a tree, their long faces buried in feedbags, though these were less full than either would have liked. They were running low on oats, and everything else, also. There would barely have been enough provisions left for it to be worth burdening the pack-mule, but in any event, the poor creature was no longer part of their company. It had fallen prey to a hungry leopard, the week before they rode past the spire.

The grove was much like the campsite of the night before, though hopefully, _without_ the surprise visitor… and with any luck, this would be their _last_ campsite, Atual had said that they would finally cross into Saldaea the next day, and could stay at an Inn, there was a good one that he knew of in the southern border-town of Gahaur. Ellyth was looking forward to a hot bath… and the chance to wash her hair _properly_.

Ellyth held the Source, spinning complex threads of Air and Water together, with a little Fire twined in here and there. She had developed this weave herself, and when it was ready, she let the threads slide into her hair. The weaves settled in, she felt the ringlets at her nape and ears curling tightly. And at least _some_ of the grime and oil sliding out and evaporating into the air. It was a rather superficial use of the One Power, she supposed, but the nightly ritual soothed her. Ellyth was no scatter-brained socialite, fixated on her own appearance… but she _did_ like her hair to look neat and well-tended. And to wear something _other_ than filthy rags! She glanced down at her silk divided-skirts with distaste. The stain-removing weave only went so far, the garment badly needed a wash, and it was _still_ the cleanest dress she had left…

Of course, there were other uses for the Power… Atual finished gutting and skinning the small rabbit, arranging it on a spit over the camp fire… It had bolted out from under Caba's hooves, and Ellyth had narrowed her eyes and used a club of Air to stun the poor creature at ten paces! Atual had then slipped down from the saddle and swiftly broken its neck. Cruel… but surely no crueller than being struck with sling-stone or arrow? And it would be well to have a little meat with their oatmeal.

With her hair attended to and the anticipation of a slightly less dull meal than usual, not to mention the glad prospect of a bed and a hot bath the following night, Ellyth found herself in a somewhat droll mood, rare for her. She caught Atual's eye, then glanced over her shoulder, exaggerating the motion, before turning back, eyes wide, putting her hand over her mouth in mock alarm. Atual sighed. She persevered;

"Well now, Atual, which exotic stranger do you suppose will trespass on our camp _this_ night? An Atha'an Miere sailor who has lost her vessel somewhere in these hills? Or a mysterious Sharaman, as described by Jain Charin, called Farstrider?"

Atual shrugged noncommittally, but did his best to get into the spirit of things. If one's Aes Sedai wished to jest, it was a Gaidin's duty to reciprocate… or at least, to attempt to. "Perhaps a descendant of one of Artur Hawkwing's lost armies will come to our fire and beg a cup of herb tea," he suggested, evenly.

Ellyth squinted at him, thoughtfully. Atual raised an enquiring eyebrow, a mannerism he had copied from her and practiced in mirrors until he had it just right, she suspected. At least he used it rarely…

"You know, something has just occurred to me, Atual," Ellyth stated, in response to this unspoken query, "which is that you do not have much of a sense of humour… of course, there are plenty of activities at which you excel, but making jokes is not one of them, yes?" Atual nodded reasonably, conceding a fair point while making it quite clear that he did not give a Tinker's Curse whether people thought him comedic or not. "And yet, the savage – the hideous, one-eyed fellow – he seemed to find you very amusing indeed!"

"They consider some odd things to be funny, Mistress, it is true."

"Well, that is exactly my point – you may not have an _actual_ sense of humour, but perhaps you have an _Aiel_ sense of humour instead, yes?"

_They were__ setting camp for the night, Atual setting a fire while Ellyth sat perched on a log, checking the Sea Folk compass and consulting the map, trying to estimate how far they had travelled that day. _

_Atual__ was nearly done, when the stack of kindling was ready, he would simply look at her enquiringly, having done his part… and she would light the fire. That was hers. Ellyth was good at lighting fires. Atual had not troubled to include a tinder box or flint with the other supplies he had assembled for their journey, you did not need one when you had the Mistress around, he considered! The Warder glanced up from the branch he was breaking and gazed past Ellyth. His eyes narrowed slightly and she felt a hint of danger through the Bond._

"_Do not be alarmed__, Mistress," Atual remarked, conversationally, "but there is an Aielman watching us."_

_Ellyth blinked. Was this some strange Gaidin joke? It was not like Atual to play tricks, but- The branch fell lightly to the ground and Atual was standing, sword in hands, though she did not recall even seeing it leave the scabbard. Ellyth whirled round, embracing the source, preparing weaves of Fire._

_A tall, powerfully-built __man stood twenty paces away, beside a bush. He wore dusty brown and grey clothing, a loose coat and trews tucked into soft, laced boots. His reddish gold hair was cut short, with a long tail hanging at the back. He was young, but his sun-darkened face looked as though it might have been used as an anvil at some point, and was slightly asymmetrical. In addition, a curved, white scar stretched down from his brow and over the empty socket where his right eye should have been, before splitting his lip and disappearing into his mouth. His left eye was a piercing, bright blue, and remained fixed on them. He was smiling crookedly (though his disfiguring scar did not give him much choice in that department) and, strangely for an Aiel, did not seem to be carrying any spears, while the sheath in his belt was empty of the long knife he might have kept there._

_The Aielman raised his hands in a placating gesture.__ "Peace, Warderman," he called out, in a clear, oddly-accented voice, "I did not come for the Dance."_

_Ellyth glanced at Atual, who kept his blade pointed at the Aielman while his eyes swept the __scrubby forest to either side. _

Dance? What dance? He is not exactly dressed for a ball…

"_You do not appear to have your spears with you, Aielman, and it is but a poor Dance without them," Atual responded loudly, "but if you change your mind, then come a little closer and I would be glad to wake you from the Dream!"_

_Surprisingly, the Aiel warrior threw back his head and laughed. He seemed to be genuinely amused, even to the point of wiping a couple of tears from his sole eye!_

"_Well-said," he complimented Atual, "it seems that you know something of our ways, Gaidin. A fine jest! I shall repeat it to others, that they may enjoy it also." He turned toward Ellyth and bowed formally, in an odd way, holding out a cupped hand, the other pressed over his heart. "But it is to you, Aes Sedai, that I wish to speak. If I offend with this request, then you should probably kill me." He stood up straight again, hands at his side._

_Ellyth__ tucked the compass and map back into her saddlebags and rose gracefully, brushing a few twigs from her silk dress. The Aielman waited patiently where he stood. He looked as though he would be content to continue waiting long into the night. Or content to be killed, even. She glanced at Atual in query… _

"_If he said he means no harm, then he doesn't," Atual muttered under his breath, "for now, at least. They don't take the First Oath, but an Aiel's word can usually be trusted – _especially_ if they promise to kill you… King Laman found _that_ out the hard way!"_

"_Yes, but what does he _want?_" Ellyth hissed. _

And why does he think I might kill him?

"_He's _Aiel_, Mistress – they're not the most predictable of folk! I have no idea what he's even doing on this side of the Dragonwall, you might think to see them in the east of Shienar but not all the way over on the Saldaean border…" Atual shrugged, not taking his eyes off the Aielman. "I _do_ know that most Aiel would sooner kill their own children than harm an Aes Sedai – and I hear they're very _nice_ to their children!"_

_Atual remembered Milona__ Sedai telling him that the day before they met, she and two other Yellow Sisters had strayed far from camp, seeking wounded armsmen to Heal, when a war party of several hundred Aiel had almost run right into them! _

_The Aiel's ground-eatin__g pace had abruptly faltered, those in front coming to a sudden stop, those behind colliding with them. Milona had instantly embraced the Source, as had her Sisters, but before they could even link, the warlike stance of the Aiel had melted away like frost in the sun. A rippling crossed the front ranks, black veils being hastily lowered, spears hurriedly tucked away, a strange meekness seeming to sweep through the fearsome fighters, like a pack of wolves ceasing to growl in favour of offering to fetch sticks! The Aiel in command, a massive warrior with a lined, scarred face, his bright red hair streaked with white, had stepped forward. He seemed vaguely embarrassed._

"_Excuse-us, Aes Sedai," he growled, "we will go another way." He flashed some hand signals at his warriors and, as one, they had all turned and run back in the direction they had come from!_

_Atual shrugged. "__There's no harm in talking to him, I suppose. But unless I am no judge of bird-calls, I _do_ know there are a couple of his friends nearby, probably with arrows nocked, and for every Aiel you know about, there is usually another you don't!"_

_Ellyth nodded,__ resisted the temptation to glance over her shoulder and fixed a cool gaze on the Aielman. "You may approach," she called. The Aiel stepped forward, walking unhurriedly toward an Aes Sedai and her Warder, both ready to kill if need be, as though he were sauntering through the market-place. He moved with a dangerous, feral grace, that rather reminded her of the leopard that had growled at them warningly a fortnight ago, before slowly dragging their dead mule away into the bushes, where it could eat in peace. When the Aiel was five paces away, Atual slipped swiftly forward to stand in front of Ellyth._

"_That's close__ enough, Aielman."_

_The Aiel halted__. "I _said_ that I was not here to Dance the Spears, Wetlander," he reiterated, with a note of offended patience to his words. He jerked a thumb over his shoulder. "I left my spears and knife over there, beside a… tree." He spoke the word as though it were unfamiliar to him._

_This close, Ellyth could fully appreciate just how tall the Ai__elman was, with shoulders that seemed almost as wide as an Ogier's. He was as impressive as Atual, in his own way, and taking that face into account – nightmarishly formidable! She tried to imagine one hundred thousand of these terrible savages pouring across the Dragonwall. How had they ever managed to turn them back?_

_Uncle __Leol had taken his Legion east to join the Grand Coalition, and had returned after four years with several new scars and less than half the Children he had set out with. He had been only too happy to tell his wide-eyed nephews and nieces scary (yet exciting!) tales of the black-veiled Darkfriends who did not fear death… at least, until Lord Guye had ruined the fun and told him not to. _

_Not that the vengeful Aiel__ who came over the Spine of the World had necessarily been Friends of the Dark... Uncle Leol was a nice man in many ways (he never forgot anyone's Nameday) but like all too many of the men Ellyth had grown-up around, he seemed to regard anyone who was not of his House or sworn to the Children of Light (with the Desiamas, loyalty always came in _that_ order) as being a probable Darkfriend. _Particularly_ Aiel! _

_Uncle Leol had had _two_ ears before he left, but came back with only one-and-a-half! Though had the arrow that sliced one of his ears in twain been an inch to the left, he would not have returned at all. 'That will teach you to not take your helmet off in the middle of a battle!' had been Lord Guye's rather brusque opinion of his younger brother's wound. Poor Uncle Leol! He had been rather self-conscious of it, so his young niece had restyled his hair to hide the disfigurement. It was only fair, since Leol had taught her to ride her first pony. _

_B__ut hearing an Aielman described was one thing, meeting him in the flesh, quite another… _

_Atual smiled easily, though his blade did not waver an inch. "I am sure that you _did_ discard your arms, Aielman, I call no lie upon your words. But the cut of your cadin'sor tells me that you are one of the Knife Hands, who claim to be more dangerous _without_ spears, than with." The Aiel nodded, with perhaps a touch of pride. "So, just to be on the safe side – why don't you let me hold onto that black veil for you? I shall return it when you leave."_

_The Aiel's eye widened and for a moment he seemed surprised, perhaps even angry. There was a length of pale cloth draped around his neck, from which a thin scrap of black material hung. He whisked the veil away and held it up._

"_No-one has ever asked me for _this_ before," the Aielman muttered, "not even under the Peace of Rhuidean…" Then, he grinned savagely, his scarred lip twisting, "but I will match your gall, Brother of Battles – here!" The Aiel tossed the veil toward Atual, who caught it across the upper edge of his sword, so that it slid down toward his hands. He tucked it into his belt, lowering but not sheathing his sword. The Aiel nodded, then turned to Ellyth. He suddenly seemed... uncertain. _

"_How may I help you?__" Ellyth enquired, trying to put the Aiel at his ease. She wasn't sure what that business with the veil had been about (were Aielmen as loath to be without their veils as foolish Taraboners?) but there had been more than a hint of danger about it. "Perhaps if I might know your _name_, Master Aiel?"_

_The Aiel blinked, or winked. It was hard to tell._

"_Forgive me, Aes Sedai, I did not think that you would be interested in who-"_

"_I am interested in a great ma__ny things," Ellyth interjected smoothly, "interested, for example, in why you presume me to be Aes Sedai at all? I wear neither Ring nor Shawl…"_

And I have not slowed yet, so I do not have 'that' face!

_Though Ellyth__ yearned for the ageless look, if only that when back at the White Tower, certain Sisters of mature years might no longer mistake her for one of the Accepted!_

_The Aielma__n smiled slightly. "Rings and shawls and other things may be removed and hidden away, Aes Sedai," he stated. Did his eye just flick toward their saddlebags? "But yesterday, I saw what you did to the... bird." His brow furrowed a little. "The small, brown, fat bird? I do not know what it is named…"_

_The previous evening, just as they were thinking of stopping to cam__p before the light faded, Ellyth had used her fiery skills to bring down a grouse on the wing, killing it instantly and burning off most of its feathers, whilst leaving the rest of the creature only slightly cooked. That had probably been a little crueller than the rabbit, but she had been sick of oatmeal and liked the taste of roasted grouse. Atual had wasted no time in retrieving the bird and popping it into his game bag – he liked grouse too. Ellyth was still rather proud of herself, twenty paces, and it had been moving fast. Birds on the wing were much more difficult to hit than rabbits… and it had been delicious! Though Ellyth had made Atual eat most of it (her Warder needed to keep his strength up more than she) contenting herself with nibbling a wing and a leg… whilst no-doubt being closely observed by a single, blue eye!_

"_The small fat brown bird is a grouse," she snapped, "for how long have-"_

"_The grouse, yes!" agre__ed the Aielman loudly, grinning his rather alarming grin, "I saw you strike it from the sky with your fires, Aes Sedai!" __The Aiel sounded quite impressed, and for a moment, Ellyth found herself unexpectedly warming to the strange fellow… _

_"Yes, well, that is as may be…" Ellyth frowned, "never mind that! How long have you been following? Spying on us, yes?"_

_The Aielman did not seem perturbed by her tone, just shrugged. "You were first seen one week ago, Aes Sedai... near to the strange thing that grew from the side of the hill… what _was_ that, Aes Sedai?"_

He must mean the Age of Legends spire!

_Ellyth gave the Aielman__ a cool glance. "What indeed? There are some things that are perhaps best left unknown to one who is not an initiate of the White Tower."_

_The Aielman nodded solemnly, conceding that Aes Sedai secrets were not for him to know. Ellyth felt a very brief flash of amusement from Atual, before the knot of emotions in the back of her mind resumed that cold wariness. She flushed a little. She really had no more idea of what the Age of Legends relic had been than did the Aiel! But he did not need to know that… _

"_I have seen your fires, Aes Sedai," __the Aielman stated, then nodded at Atual, "and I have seen your Warderman there, with his great long knife that looks very sharp!" Atual blinked. "I have seen men who looked as him before, in Shienar once, riding at the side of their Aes Sedai, with the…" he gestured at his back, "cloaks I think they are, cloaks that change their colour…" He grinned again. He was more… demonstrative, than Aiel were usually said to be, Ellyth thought. "In the Three-fold Land, we do not need to wear thin blankets on our backs, for it is very hot there!"_

_Ellyth sighed. So the game was up. The simple guise that had fooled Peddlers and Innkeepers had obviously not fooled the Aielman. Well, there was no harm in admitting what she was, since she was not in her homeland of Amadicia, after all! She had not been back there in ten years… she could never go back._

"_Very well, I am Aes Sedai." The Aielman nodded. "And you still have not troubled to tell me your name, sir." Though to be fair, she had interrupted him before he could…_

"_I am __Cohradin of the Wet Sands Sept of the Shaido Aiel," the Aielman stated. "I beg pardon for not earlier introducing myself, but I did not think that an Aes Sedai would be interested in who-"_

"_As I said, there is much that holds my interest, Cohradin of the Wet Shaido." That was how you were supposed to say it, was it not? Cohradin seemed to wince slightly. Perhaps not. "I am Ellythia Desiama of the Blue Ajah. My Warder is Atual Aendwyn of the… Far Madding Clan. You wish to speak with me?" _

"_Yes, Ellythia Desiama, Aes Sedai. I seek someone. A man – He Who Comes With the Dawn. The Chief of Chiefs. You look as though you may have travelled far, have seen much. They say that the Aes Sedai can send their eyes out of their heads, that they see many things. But have you seen _him?_"_

Eyes out of our heads? I do not think I like the sound of that…

"_I do not know __of this man, Cohradin Shaido." Cohradin winced again. Ellyth glanced at Atual, raising a feathery eyebrow. His knowledge of the Aiel clearly far outstripped hers. Atual shrugged, his flinty gaze never leaving the Aielman._

"_I _have_ heard something of this Car'a'carn, Mistress, from an old Gleeman who had travelled the Waste in search of lost stories… and oosquai too, I shouldn't wonder… It is a prophecy that was foretold to the Aiel by Sisters, apparently. While little is known, there seems to be a relationship with other prophecies…" His voice suddenly held a certain… significance. "Those of the Dragon, for example."_

_Ellyth's eyes wi__dened, she turned toward Cohradin, who stood up straighter. "Will you destroy me now, Aes Sedai?" he enquired, calmly._

"_What? Why would I want to destroy you?"_

"_For failing you, Aes Sedai. That is why we are punished in the Three-fold Land, is it not? We Aiel served you once, it is said, but then you sent us away. Perhaps we did not give satisfactory service? I do not know how we failed you, I am not the Wise One Sadora, who knows all, but if I have toh to the White Tower, then you should perhaps take my life in settlement of this debt of honour?"_

"_Toe? I do not know what you are talking about, you silly man! I have no intention of destroying _you_-" (Ellyth raised her voice pointedly) "-or any of the _other_ Aiel who have doubtless concealed themselves in the bushes to better spy on us!" _

_Cohradin__'s mouth fell open. He did not appear relieved, just… surprised. Clearly, Ellyth did not correspond with his image of an Aes Sedai. She sighed. Perhaps if she used the Mirror of Mists to make herself appear as something suitably awe-inspiring? And then set his boots on fire? Would _that_ satisfy him? _

It is certainly tempting…

_Ellyth__ scowled, and prodded a finger into Cohradin's chest, making him jump. "Go where you will and do what you wish, preferably _without_ burning down any cities that you happen to pass through, yes? But if you want my opinion badly enough to risk your own fool life, then here it is – I think that you should cease searching for this Dawn fellow, in case he proves himself to be another Logain Ablar!" _

_Cohradin__ winked – no, it was definitely a blink. "The False Dragon? He who came from the part of the wetlands known as Ghealdan?" Ellyth nodded, impatiently. "A peddler told me of him, Ellythia Desiama, Aes Sedai of the Blue Ajah. He is not the one we seek, nor any other like him. The man for whom we search is _not_ False. I do not know if he is the same as your Reborn Dragon – but his coming was foretold and he walks among us today. Born of the Ancient Blood, raised by the Old Blood. Raised in the wetlands, if such a thing can be believed! I hope he has not acquired soft and dishonourable habits, such as the wearing of scent or the riding of horse…" _

_Cohradin__ shook his head defiantly. "The Dreamwalkers have seen him, and though they are of other, lesser Clans than the mighty Shaido, our own Wise Ones confirm it – they _have_ seen him, as they have also seen Tarmon Gai'don fast approach. The Last Battle comes, and we Aiel will be there, ready for the Car'a'carn to lead us in the Final Dance!" Abruptly, Cohradin turned and began to stride away with a wolfish grace. Ellyth thought that he seemed almost… sulky! It was not _her_ fault that she did not know where his Chief of the Chiefs was! As if Aes Sedai had nothing better to do with their time than provide directions to lost Aielmen!_

"_What of your veil, __Cohradin of the Wet Sands Shaido?" Atual reminded him._

_Without pausing, the Aielman turned smoothly, continuing to walk backwards. He spread his hands in an expansive, generous gesture. "Keep it, Atual Aendwyn of the Far Madding Clan! I have another. Boast to your swordbrothers that you met one-eyed Cohradin of the Sovin Nai and took his veil from him – and lived to tell of it!" Laughing, Cohradin turned and disappeared into the shrubbery. Atual slowly sheathed his blade, suspiciously scanning the woods around them. _

_Ellyth__ eyed the patch of brush that Cohradin had faded soundlessly into, clumps of scraggly bushes that did not look as though they could conceal a sparrow. _

"_What a strange person__," she commented._

"_Aiel, Mistress," Atual muttered, as though this explained everything. Perhaps it did. He pulled the black veil from his belt, looked at it, then tucked it into his pocket. "It's not just this Cohradin character, either, though he seems a little odder than they usually are… but if you ask me, Aielmen are _all_ bloody mad!"_

Ellyth blinked. Something had just occurred to her… they had been hearing rumours from passing travellers for weeks, after all… rumours of the latest claimant to the accursed legacy of the Kinslayer. She glanced at Atual. "Do you suppose that this _Car'a'carn_ that the Aielman was looking for might be Mazrim Taim?"

Atual looked up from slowly turning the rabbit on the spit, and shrugged. "He said that he did not seek a _False_ Dragon, Mistress," he pointed-out.

"He did not seem to know _what_ he sought! I expect that this 'Sadora the Wise One' he mentioned gave him a perfectly adequate description, but the foolish fellow forgot it and has been reduced to asking strange questions of random strangers!"

"We may find out about this Taim when we get to Maradon, Mistress."

But in the eventuality, they did not need to go so far.

* * *

Ellyth stood beside Eradore in the courtyard of Wheylan's Wolf, holding the graceful mare's reins, as well as those of Caba. The big warhorse was only allowing her this familiarity because Atual had put the reins in her hand himself. She made sure to not get too near his large teeth, just in case. It was raining heavily, had been all day, but since she was already soaked, there was little point in hurrying inside. Besides, one of Lord Guye's many strictures for his children had been that they should always tend to the needs of their horse before their own.

Atual was arranging for rooms and hopefully, a hot bath… he should be back out momentarily. The Inn looked rather busy, there were several carriages and carts cluttering the small courtyard, though no sign of anyone out in this weather. She hoped that there would not be a wait to use what was probably the only private bathroom. At least they were not in Shienar, where you never knew who might come casually walking in to share your hot water, as though men and women bathing together was the height of normalcy! Although he needed a bath _far_ more than her, in Ellyth's opinion, Atual could have the use of the tub _after_ rather than at the same time… she was not Renn!

Wheylan's Wolf was a small, comfortable-looking Inn. The rectangular, wooden sign hanging over the main door depicted a furry animal dancing on its hind legs, wearing a golden crown set with rubies. The name was inscribed beneath. Ellyth had stayed at Inns with stranger names than that, Inns where the painted sign over the door did not remotely correspond with whatever it was the place was called. That Badger Inn, for example, that she and Shrina had stayed at the last time they were in… Ellyth scowled.

_Burn-you, Shrina! You should be standing next to me right now, being rained upon __also, not dancing and carousing with the other idiots in the Square of Tammuz! _

Shrina was probably staying there right now. The animal on the sign of Easing the Badger in Illian had more closely resembled a badger than this creature did a wolf, but what had been the significance of the man with the silver shovel? Renn always said that scraps of history survived on Inn-signs a thousand years after the books containing such fragments had been lost.

Ellyth squinted up at the sign again, the picture of 'Wheylan's Wolf' with the crown on its head. There was something rather odd about it – it did not look particularly wolf-like, the muzzle was too short, the tail seemed wrong…

The door beneath opened and Ellyth lowered her gaze as Atual came out. "They have a clock, Mistress, but there is no second hand." This was hardly surprising, clocks with such a feature were rare indeed, and ruinously expensive. A minute hand would have to do. Before leaving Tar Valon, at Renn's suggestion, Ellyth had timed the frequency of the light flashes on the Crystal using the Library Clock, a particularly accurate time-piece. Her Brown Ajah friend's remarks about her poor mathematical ability had stung her; she had brought three large books with her on the varied topics of trigonometry, astronomy and navigation, applying herself diligently each night before bed, holding _saidar_ and reading via a ball of pale blue light that danced above the page. No doubt the spying Aielman had observed this also!

Ellyth was a quick study, and while she was certainly no expert Windfinder of the Atha'an Miere, with any luck, by comparing the two figures she would be able to work out roughly where their eventual destination lay. Somewhere to the west of Maradon. The Crystal was still leading them north-west, towards the Aryth Ocean.

"I have taken their best remaining room, with a servant's ante-room for myself, and your bath will be ready soon." Ellyth smiled at her Warder in gratitude.

Atual now had his fancloth cloak draped over his shoulders, just as Ellyth was wearing her Great Serpent ring once more. Despite the ever-present dangers of the Blight, it was good to be back in the Borderlands, where Aes Sedai were still widely respected, where they could display what they were openly.

"There are other Sisters staying here," Atual added, as they lead their horses toward the stables, "when he saw my cloak, the Innkeeper mentioned that he already had five guests from the White Tower…" The rotund, balding man had been puffed-up with pride at the thought of having _six_ Aes Sedai shelter beneath his roof at once – a differing reaction than one might expect from an Innkeeper further south. "Though apparently, they all went out for a ride earlier. Which seems strange, in this weather."

The large stable was a long structure, lined with numerous stalls, most of them occupied. It contained more than horses. Four soaked Aes Sedai wearing bedraggled, red-fringed shawls over their waterlogged woollen dresses were arrayed against a wall full of racked pitchforks and brooms, their Serpent-Ringed hands folded before them. Ellyth knew one of them, there was no mistaking those smoothly arrogant features, and her heart sank a little. Rashiel Tamor glanced up and her pale eyes widened as she recognised Ellyth, before narrowing.

The Aes Sedai of the Red Ajah were being forcefully addressed by a tall woman in a grey silk gown and pale rain-cape who stood with her back to them. Her iron-grey hair was piled up on top of her head in a bun, held in place with long pins and decorated with small golden ornaments. She was speaking to the four in harsh tones, harsher than they were perhaps accustomed to. The Red Sisters seemed angry and resentful, which was not out of the ordinary (Ellyth considered that their Ajah seemed to exclusively recruit ill-tempered women) but they also appeared cowed and contrite, which certainly _was_.

"A brief twenty-mile ride with a spot of rain coming down and you all look ready to lay down and die! I do not know what that Casban woman has been teaching you children, but from now on you will _personally_ tend to your horses and not leave it to some lack-witted stable-boy – I will _not_ have one of you holding the rest of us up because her horse throws a shoe or goes lame! What are _you_ glaring at, girl?"

This last was addressed to Rashiel. The young Red Sister jumped, then nodded at Ellyth and her Warder. The tall woman turned, revealing an ageless face that Ellyth instantly recognised. Atual groaned softly, under his breath.

"Phaw!" the woman exclaimed, at the sight of them, "more meat for the grinder!"

Ellyth gaped, and spoke without prior consideration;

"But I thought you were dead!"

* * *

Ellyth leaned back in the bath, revelling in the sensation of being fully immersed in hot water. A long, luxuriant soak, that was what she needed. Time to think… to try and think of a way _out_ of here! Perhaps through the window?

Cadsuane bloody Melaidhrin! Of all the bad luck! And the venerable Green Sister's first words _after_ the charmless reference to meat and grinders had not even been addressed to her – she seemed to regard any Aes Sedai below the age of a hundred as still being a sort of novice – but to her _Warder!_ Apparently, they had met before, though Atual had never troubled to mention an acquaintance with the Living Legend to his Aes Sedai! Cadsuane had sounded oddly… affectionate.

"_Well, if it isn't young Master Aendwyn – I remember _you_, handsome! You gave me the slip in Tar Valon, you bad boy! Climbing out of a window! Phaw! Why, I would have come and snapped you up after the Blood Snow, if young Milona hadn't beaten me to it!"_

_Atual Aendwyn had stared death in the face on many occasions without flinching. But he flinched a little now, at this prospect._

_"Though I was sorry to hear__ about what happened to the poor girl…"_

_Though she was listening, albeit with some confusion, __Ellyth's gaze was on the golden stars and moons, fish and birds, that decorated Cadsuane's iron-grey bun. It was definitely _them_ giving her that familiar itching sensation… they were undoubtedly ter'angreal. She wondered what they did… _

_Cadsuane had turned her head, was looking at her with those dark eyes, as though fully aware of what she was thinking. _

_"I hope that you are suitably cautious with the ter'angreal that _you_ find, child?" _

"_But of course, Cadsuane Sedai…" _

"_Phaw! I shall see __you presently, young Ellythia. Wait on me in the downstairs parlour, and try to look less like a drowned-kitten when you do so!"_

At least Cadsuane had allowed her to bathe first… it would be good to change into some dry clothing as well… but all of this was only putting off the inevitable – what did the old Green Sister want with her? It could not be anything to do with the False Dragon, she was no Red! Abruptly, the door opened. Ellyth ducked down in the water a little, but Atual was outside and would not have allowed a man to enter.

Rashiel Tamor of the Red Ajah sashayed in, draped in a towel, which she removed and hung over a chair before slipping into the large, communal tub. The young Altaran woman leant back against the staves of what had once been an enormous wine-cask, sawn in half, settled herself on the wooden seat and stared at Ellyth across the intervening steaming water. She had a rather sharp nose, full lips, the olive complexion and pale eyes occasionally seen amongst the Ebou Dari. She spoke, in soft, lilting accents.

"So, _Blue_… where is your pillow-friend, the intrepid Hunter for the Horn? I do not think I have ever seen the two of you _not_ in each other's company…"

"Where do you think, _Red?_ Shrina is in Illian, of course." Ellyth scowled.

"Huh. Of course." Rashiel leant forward. "Immolated anyone lately?"

"No. Kissed any male channellers recently?"

"No. Kissed any men at _all_, Whitecloak?"

"Sat in any men's _laps_, Trollop?"

"At least I did not squeal like a frightened piglet when _my_ Block was broken!"

"No, you howled like a whipped puppy-dog as Galina _beat_ it out of you! The whole Tower heard it, perhaps the whole of Tar Valon!"

A novice destined for the Red Ajah who could not so much as sense the Source unless she was in close contact with a man! Ideally, sitting on his _knee!_ Rashiel's Block had always seemed rather incongruous, to Ellyth…

Rashiel frowned a little, before her face became smooth again. She did not like to be reminded of the fact that her Block had been beaten out of her. Since they had little else in common, other than that they had been novices together and loathed each other like poison, the one thing Ellyth and Rashiel shared – that they had both been Wilders with Blocks to overcome – usually cropped-up in their infrequent conversations. If an abbreviated exchange of insults could be termed such. Though for two Aes Sedai who did their best to avoid each other, their paths seemed to cross more often than they liked.

Ellyth's own Block had been broken in a less crude way than that employed by Galina Casban. Anaiya Sedai had known that Ellyth had great difficulty embracing the Source unless she perceived herself or someone else to be in sudden danger. With Shrina, it was the need to feel waves beneath her feet, but Ellyth's first experience of channelling the One Power had been more desperate, if less dangerous to herself, than the quelling of high winds at sea. No, Anaiya's method for ridding Ellyth of her own self-imposed Block had definitely been more inventive… if also, more disconcerting!

"_Anaiya Sedai? __You sent for me? I knocked, but no-one answered…" Smoothing her white novice dress, Ellythia pushed the door open a little wider and stepped into the empty study. There was no-one sitting behind the polished redwood desk, with its orderly array of writing implements and wax-seals._ _Perhaps Anaiya had forgotten her summons, or had stepped out to use the-_

"_Ai-eee!" Uttering what sounded like an Aiel war-cry, Anaiya Sedai leapt from behind the open door with surprising speed for so plump a woman, a dagger raised high, her features unaccustomedly arranged into a ferocious expression that could in no way be described as 'motherly.' As the dagger plunged into Ellyth__ia's breast, she squealed loudly with shock and suddenly, was filled with saidar…_

_Anaiya withdrew the dagger and nodded, satisfied._

"_There child, you thought that you were in danger – but see!" Anaiya pushed the dagger into her palm a few times, the painted wooden blade retracting into the handle before springing out again. _

"_Sheriam's Warder had his cousin send one of these to me from Cairhein," Anaiya went on to explain, breezily, "the young fellow is one of a group of 'Players' who enact 'Tragedy' (whatever that is) upon the stages of the Foregate." Anaiya laughed and pushed the dagger teasingly into Ellyth's chest a couple more times. "Arinvar Gaidin says that it is a poor entertainment compared with a Gleeman's recital and an ignoble trade for his young cousin to follow, but that it becomes an amusing spectacle at the end of the 'play' when they begin to stab each other with these implements, and to feign death, using hidden bladders full of pig's blood to add verisimilitude!"_

_Ellythia stared at Anaiya, still clutching her breast where there was a small bruise forming. She released the weaves of Fire that had begun to form, seemingly of their own accord, and tried to speak, but her tongue seemed tied in knots…_

"_Now, child, release the Source. Good. Now, embrace it again, yield to it… yes, that is good. Release. Embrace. Release. Embrace. Good."_

Thus, Ellyth's Block was broken, though she suspected that the incident might have taken a year off her life also! And ever since, when entering a seemingly-empty room, she had made a careful point of ensuring that there was no-one hiding behind the door…

Talking of doors, the bathroom door was being tapped upon. "Cadsuane Sedai says she grows impatient, Mistress," Atual's muffled voice reported from the hallway.

Ellyth sighed. "Please tell Cadsuane that I shall wait on her presently, Atual," she called. She rose from the water and perched on the edge of the wooden tub, wrapping herself in the fluffy white towel that hung over her own chair. A smaller towel, she twined about her head.

Rashiel watched, a slow smile curving her full lips. "Your Warder is a fine looking man, Ellythia," she purred, "send him in, if you like, while the water is still hot. I do not mind sharing!"

Ellyth regarded Rashiel evenly, not deigning to reply. Rashiel's smile widened a little and she slowly sunk down in the bath until only her pale eyes and dark curls showed above the water. For a Red, Rashiel certainly had odd attitudes concerning _men_, and had served numerous penances for inappropriate remarks about the foolishness inherent in her Ajah not Bonding Warders.

Rashiel might well have chosen Green… all respect to Shrina, but she was certainly the _type_… but a year after she came to the Tower, her father, who had been hiding the fact that he could channel _saidin_ for almost a decade, finally succumbed to insanity and took his own life. But only after he had killed his wife and young sons also, believing them to be the spawn of the Dark One…

Rashiel's decision to choose Red (though it took time for the Red Ajah to choose _her_) was solely in response to this, Ellyth considered. Though they had practically hated each other on first sight, she had tried to express sympathy to the girl, but Rashiel had made it clear that she did not care a fig for such sentiment! Besides, even before losing her family to this dreadful tragedy, she had already lost an older brother in what was known in Amadicia simply as 'the Troubles.'

Rashiel had a different name for it, a name used in Altara as well as everywhere else – the Whitecloak War. This had probably been the founding stone of her antipathy. Ellyth's time at the Tower would certainly have been eased if the Children of Light had not managed to make themselves so deeply _unpopular_, just about _everywhere!_ Ellyth had few friends as a novice. Rashiel had none, scorning the company of Liandrin and her cronies, though destined for the Red Shawl also.

Ellyth paused at the door, adjusting her towel to make sure that she was decent. Her clothing had been taken away by the Inn's laundress. She glanced back at the young Red Sister in the tub, who had raised herself and was leaning on the edge, chin resting on her crossed arms, watching her with those pale eyes.

"I regret that my Warder is indisposed and must take his bath _later_," Ellyth told the hussy, "but I _did_ see another fellow downstairs who could badly use a good soak, yes? A stableman, much besmirched by horse-dung, with warts on his nose and a cast in his eye – shall I tell _him_ that you do not mind sharing, Rashiel?"

Rashiel sniffed, and splashed a handful of water in Ellyth's direction, but the young Blue Sister had anticipated this, and had already ducked around the door, a cool smile on her lips.

* * *

"I do not know why you are here, girl, but since you are, I fully intend to _use _you." Cadsuane Sedai's eyes were cold, she would brook no argument, they seemed to say. "Since these Red Ajah children have thus-far singularly failed in their appointed task, I would say that we need every Sister that we can get, even a wayward Blue who is not particularly strong in the Power!"

Ellyth was no longer smiling. She felt somewhat penitent, standing before Cadsuane Melaidhrin herself, since she had not been offered a chair. If only she had had the sense to turn around and ride away as fast as possible, before Cadsuane noticed her, while there had still been time. To the Pit with staying in an Inn, sleeping on clean sheets and enjoying a hot bath – she would have happily spent the night sheltering from the rain beneath a _bush_, to avoid this woman!

Cadsuane turned to Atual, who was still lingering by the door.

"You may leave us, Atual Gaidin."

_Insufferable woman – ordering _my_ Warder about!_

Atual bowed formally, a hand over his heart, the other touching his sword-hilt.

"Honour to Obey, Cadsuane Aes Sedai."

Cadsuane smiled, and complacently inclined her decoratively-adorned head in acknowledgement. As though it had never happened before. In a tradition that went back to long before the Trolloc Wars, Warders would address certain Sisters (nearly always of the Battle Ajah) by their full title, appending 'Aes Sedai' to their name rather than merely 'Sedai.' This was very rarely done, and only Sisters for whom the Gaidin had particular respect and veneration were addressed in this fashion.

Cadsuane seemed genuinely pleased. "What a nice, polite boy! But it takes so long to say. Just for that, Atual Gaidin, _you_ may address me as 'Mistress Melaidhrin.' In fact, I _insist_ upon it!"

Atual blinked. "Yes, Mistress Melaidhrin." He bowed again, glanced at Ellyth (receiving a curt nod) then left the room. He was still slowly closing the door behind him when Cadsuane observed, in a loud and carrying voice;

"A handsome fellow, with beautiful long hair! If Atual were _mine_, I would brush that fine mane of his, a hundred strokes each night!" The door closed. Cadsuane's eyes flicked back to Ellyth, who did her best to wipe the disapproving frown from her features. "Ah, what I would not give to be young again…"

Out in the hall, Atual breathed a sigh of relief as he released the door handle. Thank the Light the Mistress had been present! The last time he had been alone in the room of an Inn with Cadsuane, just prior to the end of the Aiel War, she had behaved very inappropriately indeed! When it came to Bonding a new Warder, some older Aes Sedai would not take 'no' for an answer!

_S__o… Cadsuane still likes the 'mane' does she? She practically__ tied me up with it, the last time! Thank the Creator she didn't manage to Bond me before I made my escape…_

Atual frowned. Though customary, the long hair had always been something of a nuisance. If it had been up to him, he would have cut it all off the very day he shook the dust of Far Madding from his boots. He did not give a bent spoon for the city of his birth, _or_ its traditions, had not been back there in thirty years… but he had promised his dear mother (on her deathbed, no less) that he would never trim his 'lovely long locks' and go about looking like some short-haired outlander. So, there it was…

On the other side of the door, Cadsuane regarded Ellyth, her fingers steepled, dark eyes searching. Finally, she broke the silence. "You have been squinting at my ornaments ever since you came into the parlour. Tell me, girl… how many _ter'angreal_ do I wear in my hair?"

Ellyth frowned with concentration. Any fool could see that Cadsuane wore ten of those odd, golden ornaments arranged about the thick bun of iron-grey hair (she had never _seen_ grey hair on an Aes Sedai before!) but the familiar sensations in the back of her head did not seem to correspond with this count…

"Nine, Cadsuane Sedai."

"Only nine, eh? Are you _sure_, girl?"

"The largest of the birds, that which is not a hummingbird or a swallow, yes? The one with the long beak – it is _not_ a _ter'angreal_. I presume it to be an _angreal_."

Cadsuane smiled thinly, tapping the golden ornament so that the bird spun back and forth, as though in flight. "Correct." Her eyes became hard, her face grim – probably the last sight many a male-channeller had seen. "He is my little _butcher_…"

"Cadsuane Sedai?"

"A _shrike_, girl. The butcher-bird! So, these nine _ter'angreal_ of mine… what is their function? What exactly do they _do?_"

"I… have no idea, Cadsuane Sedai."

"Not the most _useful_ of Talents, is it? What I wouldn't give for a Dreamer, or a Sister who could Foretell accurately, like dear old Gitara could! But it will have to do. I may have need of you, girl. Your arrival, added to those four foolish children who have managed to lose the main Tower contingent, bring our numbers up to six – the minimum required for the shielding of a male channeller. It will have to suffice. You shall attend me as far as Maradon. Or further, should it prove necessary." Cadsuane nodded firmly, as though that were settled.

"But Cadsuane Sedai, while I should be glad to travel to Maradon in your company, I may have other business, elsewhere…"

"And would this be _Tower_ business, girl? Do you have an official mandate to conduct it from the Amyrlin Seat _or_ the Hall of Sitters?"

"I…" Ellyth took a deep breath, carefully arranging the words in her mind before speaking, getting everything in the right order… She opened her mouth-

"Phaw! Don't trouble to worm your way around the First Oath on _my _account! I have heard about you, my young Whitecloak, you _and_ your friend who Hunts the Horn! The young firebrand of my own Ajah, who carries a _sword!_ Phaw! They think that just because a Sister of mature years goes into retreat to tend vile rosebushes until she _dies_, that she is somehow ignorant of all that goes on in Tar Valon! As if I don't have correspondents who keep me informed of every little thing! You have never been sent on official Tower business in your life! Gallivanting around, digging-up useless bloody _ter'angreal!_ What was your penance for departing without leave _last_ time, girl?"

"It involved… cows."

"Now you are sounding surly and snippy, like a novice given unfair punishment. I do not know _what_ the White Tower is coming to… half-trained girls given the Shawl and sent out into the world while still wet behind the ears… phaw!"

Ellyth tried again, though she could feel her resolve crumbling against this dreadful woman's sheer force of personality. "I would usually be only too glad to attend you, Cadsuane Sedai, but there is an urgent matter that requires-"

"_Enough_. Whatever it is, it can wait. You are coming with me to Maradon, you _and_ your well set-up Gaidin, and that is _final!_"

Ellyth opened her mouth.

"One more word from you on the matter, just _one_, and you shall not like what happens to you, girl!" Cadsuane's dark eyes held hers, challenging her to speak.

Ellyth began to close her mouth, but rebelled. Who did this accursed woman think she was? Cadsuane was much stronger in the Power and should be deferred-to by Tower tradition, but that was as far as it went… well, that and the rather awkward fact that she was a Living Legend! But the Lady Ellythia Desiama, Aes Sedai of the Blue Ajah, was no mere novice to be called 'girl' and ordered around like a lowly armsman! They _both_ wore the Shawl!

With this in mind, Ellyth rather unwisely scowled, took a deep breath and began to object in the most strenuous possible terms. At which point, Cadsuane scowled also, stood, seized the surprised young woman by the arm, sat down again and, with practiced ease, put Ellyth over her knee!

Out in the hallway, Atual heard something that sounded like a scuffle, an alarmed squeal from the Mistress, and then the unmistakeable sound of a hard, calloused palm repeatedly striking a soft yet sensitive part of someone's anatomy. It was _definitely_ the Mistress's voice, raised in angry protest that slowly gave way to cries of pain and the occasional snivel, interspersed with the steady, methodical slapping of hand on rump!

Even without the noise, Atual could clearly feel the effects. A torrid mixture of pain, outrage and humiliation, before the Bond was swiftly masked, the bundle of raw emotions in the back of his mind dissipating to nothing. He supposed the Mistress had not wanted him to know what was going on – though it was a little late for that! Atual sighed. If anyone _else_ had dared lay a hand on his Aes Sedai, an outsider not privy to Tower ways, he would have been in there in an instant, blade out and ready to kill! But Cadsuane Melaidhrin was not anyone. Far from it…

In fact, Atual had been dolefully expecting something like this to occur, ever since the Mistress had muttered to him, whilst hurriedly dressing, that she would _not _allow Cadsuane's hunt for the False Dragon to interfere with her Cause. Atual, standing with his back firmly turned, gazing out at the grey, rain-swept scenery beyond the window, had nodded reasonably. But inside, he had winced.

Though she was his Aes Sedai, he sometimes could not help but think of the delicate Amadici girl as a sort of daughter… he had not married or raised a family, Warders almost never did, but he imagined that if he had, and his own child had told him of her intent to oppose the wishes of Cadsuane Melaidhrin (as if that was even possible!) he would have felt the same sort of helpless, fatherly concern. But a young Sister often had hard lessons to learn… and the Mistress was currently receiving one!

Of course, the rules stated than no Sister might lay a hand on another Sister. But any experienced Gaidin was well aware that the rules only went back a thousand years, and paled in comparison to ancient and venerated traditions extending from long before the Trolloc Wars, and some that even predated the founding of the Tower! Tradition would always supersede mere rules, in his estimation, and the Sisters had their own ways of settling disputes that a wise Warder would do well to keep out of!

Atual had been Gaidin long enough to know that when Aes Sedai were deciding the pecking-order amongst themselves, a lowly Warder of the Tower had little option but to keep his head down and wait for the dust to settle! Attempting to intervene would not lessen his Aes Sedai's punishment by a hair, would probably only result in _him_ receiving the same treatment from the formidable old woman! If he was lucky enough to just get spanked for his insubordination… Cadsuane Sedai was quite capable of ordering him to take off his belt, and using that instead! He had heard stories from other Gaidin, and the legendary old Green Sister was, after all, from his home-city… he had encountered women like her, before.

Not for the first time, or even the thousandth, Atual found himself glad that he had left Far Madding far behind him. After the fever took his dear mother and he was given over to a maiden-aunt to raise (a stern, vinegary old woman who Cadsuane somewhat resembled!) he had become well-acquainted with the strap. He had been an unruly lad. In the early hours of his thirteenth Nameday, Atual had departed the forbidding, tall stone house of Aunt Dylis via a roof window (he had been locked in the attic again, for disobedience) had slid nimbly down the rope he had made from her best bed-sheets and sneaked away – probably, much to the woman's relief. As the dawn sun rose over the Lake, he walked south through the Illian Gate with a small bundle on his back, a long knife at his belt and three coppers in his pocket. He never looked back.

A potboy wearing a dark apron over his rough woollens came down the hall. He lingered by the parlour door, confused at the muffled noises emerging from within. Atual glared at him, nearly making the frightened lad drop his laden tray.

"Tower business," the Warder snapped. "Move along…"

* * *

The Wet Sands Shaido sat close together, hunched beneath the rough shelter they had made out of bent saplings and blankets. A few months ago, not one of them would have believed that the miraculous experience of _water_, falling from the _sky_, might eventually become less miraculous. But it had been raining solidly all day as they travelled, and now it was night, still did not show any signs of abating. Being wet, cold, clammy – these were things that an Aiel was unused to! Even young Tevin was getting tired of it. He pulled at the collar of his _cadin'sor_, trying to shift over so that there was not a steady stream of chill water running down the back of his neck.

"The fletching on my arrows is ruined," Tevin grumbled.

Chassin grinned at him, stretching the deep scars on each side of his mouth. He was short for an Aiel, his eyes bright green, hair very pale. An identical puckered scar decorated each of his cheeks – Chassin had once had an arrow shot sideways through his mouth! Fortunately, the arrowhead had missed his tongue. Or perhaps not so fortunately? It was widely known that Chassin had simply bitten down on the shaft, sheering it in two, ripped each end free from the gushing wounds, spat out the remaining piece and continued to dance the spears as though nothing had happened! Tevin found the older warrior disconcerting, but then, nearly everyone else did also.

"I wrapped my arrows in oilskin, and they are fine," Chassin commented, unhelpfully. "Did you not know, young-one, that the water melts the glue?"

Tevin scowled. "No, I did _not_ know, for I have never been foolish enough to spill my waterskin _anywhere_, let alone upon my arrows!"

Chassin continued to grin his disturbing grin. Gerom frowned thoughtfully. The hulking warrior with the dark, reddish hair was rather deliberate when it came to thought and conversation, but a deadly fighter. There were plenty of bones whitening in the sun that had belonged to _algai'd'siswai_ who made the mistake of thinking Gerom moved as slowly as he spoke.

"Where did you get oilskin, Chassin?" Gerom wanted to know.

"From the peddler."

"But he was not selling oilskin, nor books neither, I asked. I remember a Gleeman telling me of the wetlands, how there was this 'rain' and also something colder, named 'snow', such as was encountered by the tricksome Taardad and the stinking Shaarad and the others, when they went to punish the King of the Treekillers. I thought that it would be well to have oilskin, to keep off this rain, should it occur. Which it has." Gerom nodded, his stonily placid, much-scarred face expressionless.

Chassin scowled. "Gerom, I mean you no insult, you are my near-brother and I would take a spear for you any day, but if I spoke as _slowly_ as you do, I would at least try to use _shorter sentences!_" Gerom blinked, then began to open his mouth again. Chassin sighed, swiftly forestalling him. "It was just a small piece of oilskin that was wrapped around the ugly leather armband that young Tevin foolishly traded for the two copper bracelets! _That_ is where I got the oilskin. Here, my friend, would you like a piece? You may wrap your arrows in it also."

Tevin glared at Chassin as he tipped out his quiver, unwrapped the arrows and used his belt knife to cut the piece of oilskin in half – the oilskin that had been wrapped around _his_ armband! He had discarded it, true, but it was still _his!_ Before he could demand it back, though without much hope of the older _algai'd'siswai_ acceding, Cohradin returned.

Cohradin's single, piercing blue eye turned to the Maidens of the Spear first. Golden-haired Jahdi and red-headed Manda sat facing each other, as far from the others as possible, moodily doing their best to ignore both rain and men. They looked rather wet, he thought. Their faces stayed perfectly still while their fingers danced. Jahdi was commenting on Cohradin's reappearance;

_o__ur straw-chief returns from guarding us!_

_t__hank the Creator – we are saved!_

_h__e protects us from the Shadowmen while we sleep!_

_h__e is N'avron Cor who watches over all good children!_

The Maidens each solemnly raised a finger, tracing an inverted triangle in the air, before dissolving into giggles. Cohradin snorted. Making the sign of the Nightwatcher, as though they were children! The Maidens turned to him, their faces flat and expressionless once more, their eyebrows raised. Cohradin turned away. The finger-talk resumed. Jahdi qualified her first remark;

_t__hough Cohradin is not a bad leader _

_f__or a stupid Knife Hand!_

_h__e does make good jokes sometimes_

_when they are not about _us!

_and __he dances well enough – for a man_

_d__o you think that he kisses well enough also?_

_h__e is adequate though his lips _are_ rather rough_

_y__es I like a man to be well-scarred – but there _is_ a limit!_

Cohradin shook his head. Maidens, and their incessant finger-gossip! He wondered what they were hand-chattering about this time. Something unimportant, doubtless. Cohradin turned to the equally waterlogged Knife Hands, smiling his crooked smile. "Are we downhearted, _Sovin Nai?_" he asked them.

"No," muttered Tevin, sullenly. He had not been a Knife Hand for very long, and did not want the leader of his Society to know that he had been complaining. The other two had been _Sovin Nai_ as long as Cohradin, and had no such compunctions.

"This water-from-the-sky is starting to seem like a poor thing, to me," Chassin griped.

"I had a fine, oiled-canvas tent that I wished to bring," Gerom pointed-out.

Cohradin grinned. "You see, young Tevin, how you and I are the _true_ _algai'd'siswai_ here, that we stand always ready to join the Dance with Sightblinder himself, while these two poor, damp wretches groan like spoiled wetlanders, and the sadly-drenched Maidens_…_" he glanced at Jahdi and Manda, though they did not rise to the bait, continuing to ignore the men while their fingers did the talking "…wave their hands about girlishly and behave as though it is _my_ fault that this cold water continues to pour from out of the sky? As if _water_ could ever be a bad thing!" Cohradin tilted his head back for a moment, mouth open wide, swallowing. "Why, I hope that it _never_ stops! Well, Tevin, do you not agree that we two alone properly recall our duty? Our _guard_-duty?"

"If that is what you meant, you had only to say so," Tevin muttered, grabbing his spears and slipping into the night.

Cohradin watched him go, with approval. "Young Tevin shows promise."

"If he _lives_ that long," Chassin muttered.

"It had a felt lining, and canvas loops from which a lantern might be hung, if one wished to read after sundown…" Not that Gerom would have been allowed to bring his library with him, any more than the regretted tent.

Cohradin eased down to squat beside Gerom. Chassin passed him a length of dried _sorda _meat and he chewed on it reflectively. "Well," Cohradin asked the hulking warrior, "why, then, did you not explain to old Sadora that you wished to go and fetch this fine tent, before setting-out?"

Gerom shrugged his massive shoulders. "Because I was too afraid!" The three Knife Hands laughed. There had been no time to pack.

Sadora was the ancient Wise One of their Hold, a frightening old lady who, for nearly three centuries, had made every Sept Chief of the Wet Sands walk small. She had practically driven them out into the Waste like goats, with painful blows of her stick for those she felt were lagging behind…

_Wet Sands was a small, sparsely-populated__ Hold, and nearly all of the spears were absent, half guarding a silk caravan on its way back from a Sharan trade-hold, the other half out on a raid with the Sept Chief. During an enjoyable dream of some of the things she used to do with her fourth husband, the Wise One Sadora had received an extremely unwelcome interruption from young Seana of the Nakai. The unapologetic Dreamwalker had given her an important message, then moved on to deliver it elsewhere. Consequently, Sadora had _not_ woken in a good mood… _

_Discovering that there were scant algai'd'siswai available to send to search for __He Who Comes With the Dawn – she would be flayed alive and dipped in salt before letting her Hold seem remiss in _that_ duty! – worsened Sadora's mood considerably. She had taken it out on those few who remained, a pair of Far Dareis Mai and five Sovin Nai, their leader a notorious trouble-maker, left out of the raid in disgrace after nearly starting a blood–feud with the Tomanelle. The Maidens had similarly been left behind by their spearsisters in punishment, for the crime of fighting with each other. This was acceptable usually, but not when the reason for and object of the fight was a man! Metlin the Silversmith was considered to be the handsomest fellow in the Hold, but did not seem in a hurry to pick up any bridal wreaths! _

_A last whack of the stick across the rump of young Tevin, still trying to lace up his boots and run at the same time, and Sadora paused next to the pale boulder shaped like a skull, which marked the western boundary where the land claimed by their Sept ended and the rest of the Waste began. Sadora turned to them, her stare like two emeralds held up to the sun, locks of pure white hair blowing free from her scarf and waving, snake-like, around her leathery face, which was set in an expression of grim determination. _

_The__ Knife Hands and Maidens watched Sadora meekly, surreptitiously rubbing parts of their anatomy where the stick had landed particularly hard. The fact that they were warriors, armed to the teeth (yet lacking anything else but waterskins, and lucky to have those) made no difference. Like everyone else in Wet Sands Hold, they had been terrified of Sadora ever since they were children, and as far as _she_ was concerned, they still _were_ children…_

_Sadora pointed__ her fearsome stick in a vaguely westerly direction. "He Who Comes With the Dawn is _that_ way," the ancient Wise One quavered, "over the Dragonwall and in the wetlands… somewhere… If you do not return with him, then do not trouble to return at all! Do you have your spears?" Sadora's eyesight had been failing a little in the last fifty years. They dutifully held up their weapons. _

_Sadora peered at the seven spears, then nodded, satisfied. "Good. That is all an algai'd'siswai needs. Now, go and find me the Chief of Chiefs. Be off with you!"_

Cohradin grinned, baring his teeth on one side. "The Aes Sedai – she was _not_ what I expected, not at all, but there _was_ something of the Wise One about her… if she had held a stick also, I might have been as cautious of her as I am of old Sadora!"

They laughed. The idea of anyone else being as bad as Sadora was ridiculous!

"Tell us again, what the Brother of Battles said…"

"Again? Very well. I told the Warder to the Aes Sedai that I did not come for the Dance, so then _he_ said…"

Manda sighed, loudly. Jahdi yawned, noisily. Manda's fingers flashed.

_n__ot this story again_

_i__t is amusing, but not _that_ amusing_

_I held my bow on the humorous Gaidin, he seemed quite a man_

_y__es indeed, too much for his Aes Sedai – what a skinny, pale little thing!_

_h__ardly as the legends speak – I thought that she might at least be taller!_

_though __did you notice her hair – the way it was curled and arranged?_

_y__es, that style would look well on you_

_o__n you also, your hair is finer than mine_

_h__ow I wish that were so_

_I wonder how the Aes Sedai__ does it?_

_wound about a hot iron perhaps?_

_o__r she could-_

"Hoy! Maidens! Cease wiggling your pretty fingers for a moment!"

Jahdi and Manda glared at Cohradin.

"What?" snapped Jahdi.

"Now that young Tevin is gone, we _algai'd'siswai _of greater years and more mature reflection are deciding what to do next – do you wish to be included or not?"

Jahdi and Manda eyed each other.

"Well?" demanded Manda, "how stand the _Sovin Nai_?" Her fingers flickered.

_h__ow stand the mighty feather hands?_

Jahdi sniggered nastily.

Cohradin eyed the Maidens coolly. "Gerom thinks that we should search for He Who Comes With the Dawn further south, in… where was it again?"

"In the west part of Andor… I read a book that described a mysterious tower. It stands beside a… river." The word was unfamiliar to Gerom. "The river that is named 'Arinelle,' one of the mountain waters that once bordered Manetheren."

The Aiel nodded sagely. The only thing that had ever interested any of them about the wetlands was the tales of its wars and battles, always a popular request for a visiting Gleeman to satisfy with song or a Peddler with books. They all knew of the march from the Field of Blood, the last stand of Manetheren. Gerom continued, in his deliberate way;

"There is a silver tower along there somewhere, I believe. If we follow the river, we should find it. A relic of the Age of Legends, singular to behold – might this not be such a place that the Chief of Chiefs would make his Hold?"

The Aiel eyed each other. It was no less likely than the ideas some of them had put forward for the _Car'a'carn's_ possible location… if only old Sadora had been able to give them something to _go on_ with their search, besides bruises! Anything at all! Even so, it was not very likely that the Chief of Chiefs would be found living in a metal tower beside a river…

Cohradin continued briskly. "Yes, so Gerom wants to go south and find his shiny tower, while Chassin stands with me – what say you, Maidens of the Spear?" Cohradin's hands moved swiftly as he spoke, in signs less delicate than those of the Maidens, yet still complex.

_broken-speared maidens of the withered bridal wreath!_

Now it was the Knife Hands' turn to snigger, at least Cohradin and Chassin did. Gerom had his lips thoughtfully pursed. He was thinking that if the tower proved uninhabited, they might try further south even than that, in what had once been the Land of the Unbroken Sword… there was an old atlas that predated the Trolloc Wars in his library, one of his most prized possessions. One of the maps inside showed where the ancient Nation of Manetheren had lain… he was fairly certain he could lead them there… there was no particular reason why the _Car'a'carn _would live in this place either, other than the fact that if your sword was broken (as it was, in the end) you might well reach for a spear in its place! But it was no worse a suggestion than any of the others. Better than young Tevin's idea that they should go to _Tear_, of all places! Foolish youth!

Besides, Gerom had a taste for the tabac the wetlanders grew in that part of the world, it was always the second thing he asked a peddler for, after books, so even if they did not find He Who Comes With the Dawn between these two rivers, he might at least fill his empty pouch… They would need the luck of a _ta'veren_ to find him in any case! It was like seeking a single mote of gold amidst myriad grains of sand.

Gerom frowned. Really, it should have been _him_ who spoke with the Aes Sedai, since he knew more of the wetlands than all of the others put together. Though often, his knowledge had proved sadly out-dated, since it had come from very old books and much seemed to have changed in the years since they were written. But Cohradin had claimed the honour of approaching the Aes Sedai for himself, and he was their leader, after all. There had been speculation amongst the others about whether he would live to return from this meeting, speculation… and wagering! Gerom had won a fine, silver-chased pipe from a disappointed Jahdi when Cohradin had come back to them, yet undestroyed by the Aes Sedai's wrath! He was not sure what the Maiden had been doing with such a pipe since she did not smoke herself, but it was _his_ now! Gerom had never seen a woman smoking a pipe… well, except for Sadora the Wise One, of course, she liked the Two River's tabac even more than he did!

The Maidens glared at Cohradin long enough to indicate that while they did not know what his signs had meant any more than he understood _theirs_, they did not appreciate him stealing their medium of jest. Jahdi and Manda glanced at each other wordlessly for a moment, not even handtalking.

Jahdi shrugged. "Why not south? The Chief of Chiefs is not to be found here, it would seem. We might as well go and look into Gerom's tower…"

Oddly, Manda disagreed with her. Though _far_ from near-sisters back at Wet Sands Hold, the two Maidens usually put up a united front against the Knife Hands. She shook her head, her long, red tail of hair swinging against her shoulders.

"I do not think we will find the _Car'a'carn_ in the southern lands," Manda commented, "if he is truly of our blood, he will be no weakling – these Bordermen are more likely to have raised him, since they dance well. For wetlanders…"

It was true – while sneaking through the Niamh pass, the Aiel had encountered a Shienaran patrol, a dozen heavy-cavalry, who had immediately attacked – it had taken a surprising amount of effort to kill them all! And one of the Knife Hands had been woken from the Dream – a more poetic way of describing what had actually happened, which was that a howling, armoured rider, his top-knot flaring behind him, had spitted young Andalin on a long lance.

"Then that is settled," declared Cohradin, "three votes to two – we continue to search in these Borderlands for He Who Comes With the Dawn. We will go all the way through Saldaea if we must – perhaps we shall look upon this 'ocean' that they say the Hawkwing sent his armies over?"

The Aiel nodded. A vast pool of water, so wide that you could not see the other side – and yet, not a drop of which could be drunk! They would find out for themselves if the peddlers had lied, and try to drink some. Or trick young Tevin into drinking! Rivers, rain, _horses_… strange Age of Legends things that glowed in the dark whilst ghosts walked beneath… an Aes Sedai with oddly-curled hair… Despite the hardships, this quest had certainly offered the opportunity for seeing some strange new sights!

The rain continued to fall, well into the night, while the Wet Sands Shaido slept. Those who dreamed, dreamed of the Three-fold Land.

* * *

The next morning dawned bright and clear. While they waited on their horses in the stableyard of Wheylan's Wolf, Rashiel walked her roan gelding up beside where Ellyth sat stolidly, an icy expression on her face, her dark eyes staring straight ahead as she attempted to ignore the sensations emanating from a part of her anatomy currently in contact with the saddle. Cadsuane – _vile woman! _– had offered her Healing when she was finally finished asserting her authority – _I hope she has painful blisters on her hand!_ – but Ellyth had coldly refused, before gathering her skirts and the remaining shreds of her dignity, and hobbling from the room.

Atual had been waiting outside, looking suitably concerned, and had helped Ellyth up the stairs to her room, maintaining a diplomatic yet sympathetic silence right up to the point when she gratefully lay down (_face_ down!) on her bed – and then had ruined it all by offering to go and fetch her some soothing ointment from the town's Wise Woman! She was afraid that she had shouted at him, but her Warder had not seemed to mind, simply closing the door quietly behind him and leaving his Aes Sedai to ruefully ponder the consequences of defying Cadsuane bloody Melaidhrin!

Now, Atual sat his horse on the other side of the yard, giving his Aes Sedai room and keeping his distance from the Red Sisters also, three of whom were giving him the occasional disapproving stare. Rashiel eyed the Blue Sister whom she had been novice and Accepted alongside, and smiled sweetly.

"And how are _you_ feeling on this fine morning, Ellythia?"

"Go away, Rashiel. I am in no mood for your foolishness." Ellyth frowned. She should not have said that, she should have simply ignored the dratted girl…

"Dear me, _someone_ awoke with a sore head! Or is it some _other_ part of you that is sore, hmm?" Rashiel's pale eyes were wide and innocent. She was wearing a velvet riding-gown of deepest maroon beneath her cloak, and displaying an inappropriate amount of cleavage. Ellyth's own gowns tended to have quite high neck-lines but the seamstresses art ensured that they hinted at the curves beneath… while Rashiel seemed to prefer clothing that shouted of her best attributes!

Ellyth did not rise to the bait, continued to stare straight ahead, waiting impatiently for their leader – _horrid old trout!_ – to deign to arrive. Though she had long-since wiped her face clean of tears, her eyes still looked a little puffy and red. Rashiel noted this.

"And usually with so much to say for herself…" Rashiel leant closer, lowering her voice to a hiss. "Big cry-baby! You think that _you_ had it bad? Cadsuane made _us_ all go and cut _switches!_"

Ellyth glanced at Rashiel in surprise before she could stop herself.

Rashiel nodded firmly, continuing in scandalised tones; "She said we were insubordinate! Four Red Sisters, on the official business of their Ajah, though admittedly _lost_ – but Cadsuane didn't bloody care! She just lined us all up, and-"

"Are you two children quite done chattering?" Rashiel's mouth snapped shut and she sat up very straight in her saddle. It was Cadsuane, astride that massive black horse of hers. "May I perhaps have your attention now?"

The five Aes Sedai and the lone Warder promptly gave Cadsuane Melaidhrin their undivided attention. She had that effect on people. Cadsuane spoke loudly;

"We ride to settle with the False Dragon, Mazrim Taim – a task at which certain Sisters have singularly failed, up until now…" Her dark eyes swept over the Red Sisters, who hunched a little in their saddles. "There shall be no refusal of duty," (a glare at Ellyth, who dropped her eyes and bit her lower lip) "no flirtations with soldiers," (a glare at Rashiel, who suddenly found reason to examine her reins closely) "we shall not cease the hunt until we have Master Taim _firmly_ where he belongs – shielded and awaiting trial, in the open cells of the Tower!"

Cadsuane shrugged, and continued in more conversational tones; "or failing that, dead will do, I suppose. I do not like what I have heard of this one, so far… I do not think he will come as _quietly_ as Master Ablar did…" Ellyth found herself exchanging a slightly alarmed glance with Rashiel, despite their mutual antipathy. Logain had _hardly_ come quietly, by all accounts! Cadsuane turned to Atual.

"Lead the way, Atual Gaidin."

To his credit, Atual did not move for a few moments, wilting a little beneath Cadsuane's expectant gaze and _almost_ waiting for Ellyth's curt nod before walking his horse forward and out of the stableyard, the Legendary Battle Ajah Sister following, the three other Red Sisters trailing her like chicks behind the mother hen…

Rashiel smiled coldly at Ellyth. "After you, Ellythia."

Ellyth winced. It hurt enough now, what would it be like when her horse was walking? Cantering? _Galloping?_

Rashiel seemed to know what she was thinking. "I refused Healing too, but at least I was not expected to _ride_ anywhere the next day!" she commented.

Ellyth sensed Rashiel embrace the Source, and turned to tell the sneaking strumpet to mind her own burning business!

Rashiel pre-empted her. "You always were too proud for your own good," she snapped, before slapping the young Blue Sister rudely on the arm and spurring her horse forward. Ellyth quivered in the saddle, back arching, as Rashiel's Healing weave settled shiveringly into her and the pain in her bruised backside eased. Eradore skipped a little, discomforted by the odd motions.

When Ellyth came back to her senses, the others were already out on the road, Atual glancing back at her with concern. She shook her head ruefully, anger and resentment vying within whilst confusion looked-on, then heeled Eradore to a canter to catch up to the small party.

"I did not _ask_ for Healing, _Red!_" she hissed at Rashiel, reigning-in beside her.

"I know you didn't, _Blue_ – which is the only flaming reason I _gave_ it!"

"I can hear you foolish girls bickering back there…" Cadsuane did not trouble to turn around, kept her eyes firmly on the Maradon road ahead, sitting her impressive black horse with a back as straight as a Lancer's. "If I hear it again, well… I just hope that you both like the taste of _soap!_"

* * *

Ellyth could feel eyes on her. She glanced over her shoulder. Just a stand of the low, twisted trees. Nothing moved. Shaking her head, she heeled Eradore forward a few steps, shading her eyes and peering up at the jagged peaks that lay ahead. Atual seemed to think they were still being followed, though why anyone would want to track them through this desolate place… she could sense her Warder returning. She would be glad to no longer be alone with her thoughts.

From halfway up the nearest peak, a white, fluted column projected, a hundred spans long, easily. Something from the Age of Legends, though she had no idea what it was. World's End was riddled with such artefacts, most too far up in the peaks to approach. Which was probably just as well. The week before, they had seen a dull metallic spike, rising from a steep valley. Atual had urged caution, and a little closer, she had seen why. The spike was surrounded with animal bones in deep piles, though she thought she had seen human skulls down there also. Atual remarked that there was one like it in the Borderlands also, and that everything that approached it died.

It was a misty day, a deep autumnal fog shrouding the tops of the peaks and hanging thick in the low valleys. It had been early summer when they left Tar Valon. Two months! _That_ was how long Cadsuane had delayed them… that was how long it had taken to catch the False Dragon. And weeks more wasted, trying to find their way through these accursed peaks, encountering chasms and fierce mountain torrents that blocked their path, having to double back and find another way... If _only _their guide had not proved untrustworthy… not to mention murderous!

"_What are you doing__, Master Bartok?"_

_The tall, shaven-skulled man turned, with a ready smile on his lips._

"_Your Ladyship… you startled me!" he exclaimed. Phelyn Bartok smiled a lot, but it never seemed to reach his eyes, which were a cold, pale blue. Lord Guye had always told her to never trust a man who smiled too much, and it had proved to be good advice. Ellyth had not cared for Bartok from the start, but they had had few choices when it came to finding a way through World's End. She stepped closer. The man was definitely concealing something in his hand._

"_What are you holding?"_

_Phelyn's smile seemed to slip a little, before resuming. His eyes narrowed.. _

"_Since you do not seem anxious to respond, then I will provide the answer – you have a small mirror in your left hand, which you appeared to be using to signal towards that hill…" Ellyth pointed at a dark hill in the distance, across the valley from where the first peaks of World's End rose into the sky. As she did so, some answering flashes of light came, from whoever was over there._

"_Mirror, Aes Sedai? I know nothing of mirrors…" Phelyn took a step closer to her, still smiling. Now, his hands were empty. _

"_I do__ not recall telling you that I was Aes Sedai, Master Bartok…"_

_The__ guide continued to smile, taking another step. Ellyth had embraced the Source the moment she had decided to confront the man. She began to form weaves of Air…_

_Phelyn gestured at the hill. "I thought I could see sunlight reflecting from something over there," he stated, slipping his other hand into his coat, "but I cannot imagine what-" His e__yes widened – a blur of movement behind Ellyth, and a long, power-wrought blade took him in the chest, twisted, and withdrew. Phelyn looked down at the ragged wound over his heart, pumping blood. He dropped to his knees, looked up, blood trickling from between his lips. He was no longer smiling._

"_They are coming for you…" Phelyn rasped. He fell back and lay still._

_Ellyth rounded on Atual, as he carefully cleaned his blade._

"_I had the situation well in hand – why did you do that?" she demanded. Atual crouched beside the still corpse of their erstwhile guide and pulled back the flap of his coat, carefully withdrawing the long, wicked dagger from a hidden sheath. He held it up. A dark, oily substance coated the blade._

"_I could not risk it, Mistress," he muttered, "he was reaching for this, and he would have been _fast_. Men like that always are. One scratch…" He did not trouble to finish the sentence. More flashes of light from the far hill. After a while, when no response came, they ceased. Ellyth glanced at Atual. He looked troubled._

Here was her Warder now. Atual reined-in a few paces from her. His eyes narrowed slightly, and he reached for something tucked into the back of his belt. "Please lean slightly to your left, Mistress," he requested. As Ellyth did so, something streaked past her. The solid sound of an impact, and a loud squawk. A few black feathers still hung in the air, directly in front of a large raven, neatly pinned to a branch with a slim throwing-blade. Two more ravens exploded from the trees, launching themselves skywards. Ellyth narrowed her eyes. The birds erupted in bright flames, instantly consumed, dark ash drifting down. A distant croaking, and yet more ravens rose into the sky at the end of the valley, circling, then flying east.

Ellyth glanced at Atual as he slipped from the saddle to retrieve his knife. He did not say anything, but she could feel his worry through the Bond.

"This is starting to rather uncomfortably remind me of Haddon Mirk," Ellyth muttered. Though in fact, she had a feeling that it might be much worse.

* * *

Cadsuane Sedai took a sip from her cup, and made a face, as though she had just sucked a lemon. "Not enough honey, child." Rashiel flinched a little, made as if to come over and remove the offending beverage, but Cadsuane shook her head. "It is not important, it is only tea. But remember next time, _three_ spoonfuls." Rashiel bobbed her head, like a maidservant. Ellyth raised her eyebrows. She had _seen_ Rashiel put three spoons in, stirring carefully, while herself engaged in carefully slicing the crusts from the cucumber sandwiches, yet not a word of protest from the young Red Sister. She had never seen Rashiel reduced to such humbleness in her life!

But then, this was Cadsuane Melaidhrin. It was a little like being trapped in the same tent as Caraighan Maconar, the Legendary Green Sister who tamed numerous male channellers, long before the Trolloc Wars. The two had much in common. Come to think of it, they had the same _initials_… probably just a coincidence, but could Cadsuane be Caraighan, reborn? Her thread, spun-out again by the Wheel, to-

"Stop dawdling, girl! Where are those sandwiches?" Ellyth started, then glided over with the large plate. Cadsuane selected one, placing it on her saucer. Ellyth turned to the man occupying the camp-chair opposite Cadsuane's, elegantly proffering the cucumber sandwiches.

Davram Bashere's dark, tilted eyes regarded the pile of rather soggy triangles without much enthusiasm, but he took one also, to be polite. He inclined his head to Ellyth gravely, then inserted the sandwich beneath his thick, horn-like moustaches, chewing slowly. Cadsuane waved a hand in dismissal. Ellyth returned to her place beside Rashiel, who was still holding the teapot. But could not quite stop herself from bobbing a maid-like curtsy to the venerable Green Sister, beforehand.

It was a large tent of stoutly walled canvas, decorated with silk hangings, furnished with folding chairs and tables. Lord Bashere had provided it – indeed, they were currently in the Marshal-General's camp, surrounded by similar tents, if not as fine. Many of which seemed to contain his officer's wives, not to mention his _own_ delightful spouse. They were a forbidding lot, those Saldaean Noblewomen, Ellyth got the impression that they _personally_ wanted to get their hands on Mazrim Taim!

At least there _were_ tents here… in the last weeks, she felt as though she had crossed every mile of Saldaea's heartland, sleeping on the wet ground beside a guttering fire as often as not. Saldaea was a big place, and the forces of the False Dragon moved as frequently and fast as those of the Queen.

Cadsuane broke the silence. She could usually be relied upon to do that. "Let us review the events of the last month, Lord Bashere…"

The Dragonsworn army assembled by Taim had proved thus-far impossible to pin-down. The man had a habit of dividing his forces into smaller companies, that would disappear into the countryside (often ravaging it as they did so) before reassembling at pre-chosen rally points, in order to make an attack on a walled town, or engage one of the smaller detachments that chased them. In the brief, violent clashes, men had died. As had Aes Sedai, reportedly. Though this could not be confirmed, as the rest of the Sisters had proved as difficult to locate as Taim himself!

"He is close. We shall have him soon," Bashere growled. He was usually quite a humorous man, by all accounts, but there was something about Mazrim Taim that seemed to bring out his dark side. He could barely bring himself to say the man's name! "Has there been word of the Tower contingent, Cadsuane Sedai?"

Cadsuane frowned, and shook her head, the golden ornaments bobbing. There were a dozen Aes Sedai of the Red Ajah and two thousand White Tower armsmen out there somewhere, but she had no more idea of their location than had the four Red Sisters who had become separated from this main group. If Rashiel and her three companions had known where Galina and the rest were, they would not have dawdled, but would have fled from under Cadsuane's wing with alacrity!

Ellyth glanced at Rashiel. She was following the talk attentively.

"I will send a Sister out with each patrol," Cadsuane announced, "do not concern yourself, we will have the False Dragon captured and caged before the month is out, or I will eat my own shawl!" Bashere blinked, then leant forward as Cadsuane lowered her voice significantly. "Now, Lord Bashere, here is what I need you to do…"

Later, whilst clearing away the cups and plates, Ellyth gave vent to her feelings. Cadsuane had accompanied Lord Bashere as far as his horse, still giving instructions as though _she_ were the Marshal, and was temporarily out of earshot.

"She uses us like maids," Ellyth grumbled, "we are Aes Sedai, not novices!"

Rashiel regarded her levelly. "How long have you worn the shawl?"

"Five years, of course!"

"Myself, four." Rashiel sniffed. "Ellyth, Cadsuane has been Aes Sedai for nearly _three-hundred_ years! To her, we still _are_ novices!"

"Perhaps you enjoy pouring tea and changing sheets, yes? Emptying chamber-pots? You should perhaps apply for maid-service at an Inn, Rashiel!"

"Only if _you_ go and be a _hairdresser_, Ellyth, as you seem to have an aptitude for it!" It was true, if not exactly intended to be complimentary. In an idle moment, Ellyth had used her talents on Rashiel's somewhat neglected hair and now the unruly mop of curls had been tamed a little, rows of neat ringlets about her brow and ears, shining dark locks twining over her nape. She looked _ten_ times better than she had! Ellyth had only done it because she was bored, because she felt that she still owed Rashiel something for the Healing, and did not like to feel obligated. It was not as though they were about to become pillow-friends anytime soon! Though she had always been 'Ellythia' to the girl before – when had she started calling her 'Ellyth?'

Ellyth supposed that she and Rashiel were now on more friendly terms than they had ever been before, but this had a lot to do with shared adversity, the trials of the last few weeks that they had been forced to face together. Though the incident with the soap had certainly encouraged them to become more cordial, at least within Cadsuane's hearing… it had taken _days_ to wash the vile taste from her mouth!

Rashiel sighed. "Honestly, Blue, you whine about performing a few chores, and cannot see the truth that is right under your nose – probably, because it is stuck too high in the air!"

"And what manner of truth would that be, Red?"

"Who cares if we have to pour tea and slice sandwiches? The fact is, we are _there_. We are watching and listening whilst Cadsuane Melaidhrin confers with Lord Davram Bashere, the Marshal-General of Saldaea – presumably, because she _wants_ us to hear and observe, and hopefully, _learn_. Because Cadsuane thinks that we may one day be sat in her place, doing much the same things on behalf of the White Tower!"

"Cajoling and manipulating the military nobility, yes?"

"If that is what it takes, to keep the scattered nations whole. To preserve humanity from the Shadow. You think we are being exploited and bullied by Cadsuane? Well, perhaps we are. But we are also being _taught!_"

Ellyth considered this, and was forced to concede the point. "You know, Rashiel," she smoothly allowed, "for someone whose chief interest appears to be the chasing of boys, you _do_ occasionally manage to talk some sense!"

"Why, thank you, Ellyth…" Rashiel's smile widened. "Though I prefer _men_. Mature, _experienced_ fellows, with fine eyes and powerful hands, such as your Ward-"

"What are you foolish girls gossiping about now?" They jumped. Cadsuane could move with frightening stealth.

"Nothing of much importance, Cadsuane Sedai…"

"We are just clearing away the tea-things, Cadsuane Sedai…"

Cadsuane regarded the two bustling, blushing girls with apparent disfavour. She shook her head, sadly. "When I look at you two silly children, I see the future of the White Tower – and suddenly, I feel close to tears!" The young Sisters flinched, and hurried away with the trays.

Cadsuane watched them go, and for a moment, the stern line of her mouth relaxed a little. Her statement had not violated the First Oath, though she kept to herself the fact that they were tears of pride. Pride in the White Tower.

Not pride for the place itself, of course, she had never much cared for the rather self-aggrandizing architecture, and _certainly _not pride in the silly, self-important women who roamed its halls! But pride for the _institution_, that with its customs and traditions, its trials and tests, had – for more than three millennia – taken foolish girls like _these_ two fine examples and, through ordeals of blood and fire, through rivers of sweat and tears, transformed them into Aes Sedai.

Cadsuane shook her head, the golden ornaments bobbing.

_I __really am turning into a sentimental old fool in my dotage!_

"Do not forget, girl," she snapped, when Rashiel came back for the teapot she had forgotten, "_three_ spoonfuls!"

Rashiel bobbed gracefully and scurried away. She was really quite good at that, better than the snobbish Amadici Noblewoman (who had saved Pedron Niall's life, no less!) but then, the girl ought to be well-practiced. Before coming to the Tower, the young Altaran flipskirt had been employed as a chamber-maid in the Tarasin Palace of Ebou Dar! She had graduated to being a companion to a minor Royal cousin, young Ysmet of House Mitsobar, Cadsuane believed. But then she had begun to manifest, and the Kin (yes, she knew _all_ about them, though she doubted there was another Aes Sedai alive who did!) had sent the girl north to the Tower, as they always did. And a year after that, young Rashiel's father… Cadsuane frowned. That had been a bad business. She wished that she had got there in time…

Back in Ghealdan, Cadsuane had avidly read all of the reports and letters from her various agents and correspondents in Tar Valon and everywhere else, whilst outside her kitchen window, neglected rose-bushes slowly wilted in the hot sun. She had read a fair bit about these two girls… and Cadsuane Melaidhrin never forgot _anything_ that she had read.

Young Ellythia and Rashiel had come along well in the past weeks, though she would never have dreamt of telling them so. Cadsuane had seen their strength and had done her best to encourage its growth. _After_ the necessary first lessons in humility, naturally – which were _nothing_ compared to her own, received at their age from an ancient toothless Wilder in the Black Hills! Not mere strength in the Power, neither was particularly strong in that, as if it should even matter. Cadsuane had always thought it a foolish tradition for a wise Sister to have to defer to a foolish Sister, simply because the latter was stronger in the Power. But then, she was the strongest Aes Sedai in a thousand years and had never deferred to anyone in her life! Except for Norla, of course…

What the ancient Green Sister sensed in the young (_ridiculously_ young!) Blue and Red Sisters was the more important, inner-strength that made an Aes Sedai so formidable a piece on the great board. She suspected that these two children (whilst inexperienced and ignorant!) had courage and tenacity, would not give up, even when all seemed lost. There were few enough like them left in the Tower these days, in Cadsuane's estimation.

A pity that young Rashiel had not chosen Green, she was wasted amongst the Reds, but there it was. Cadsuane found the girl's studied decadence and flirtations with men amusing – she could tell the little snip stories from _her_ youth that would uncurl that hair and _then_ curl it again! And young Ellythia, daughter of the Whitecloaks _and_ Aes Sedai! Quite a paradox!

_And quite__ a Warder too, for that matter!_

Cadsuane snorted. At _her_ age! Though what age did a woman have to be before she no longer enjoyed looking at a handsome, well set-up fellow? Cadsuane sighed, gustily. Master Aendwyn was rather wasted on the girl, in her estimation. But you could never quite tell, with a Blue… sometimes, they took their noses out of their precious Cause long enough to notice the man in the fancloth cloak next to them, who had ridden those many miles at their side.

'What is the difference between a Blue and a White? Nothing! Except Blues are not immune to falling in love!' Cadsuane smiled. A tall girl, wearing the same plain white dress as her, had told her that joke on her first day in the Tower, more than three hundred years ago… what had been her name? Saphonisba, that was it… not that anyone ever called her _that_… a pleasant girl, from a village somewhere in southern Malkier, always regretting that she would never be able to put some silly dot of paint on her head! Cadsuane frowned, sadly. Saphy had not had much potential, the Tower could have spared her, she should have refused the Test and gone home, married that fellow she had always rather wistfully spoken of, raised a family… she would have made a fine mother… but that damned Malkieri _pride_ of hers would not allow it. Saphonisba Carigor had walked into the glowing silver arches for the second time, face still streaming with tears. She never came out.

The White Tower was a hard place, a woman had to be strong to survive it and attain the Shawl. And then learn that that was only the _beginning!_ Making something of herself from that point took _real _strength, and few enough Sisters had it. The roguish Ebou Dari strumpet _probably_ had it, but the prim Amadici ice-queen _certainly_ did! In fact, arrogant young Ellyth rather reminded Cadsuane of _even more_ arrogant young Moiraine, a little. She would go far. If she lived that long…

* * *

Atual was lingering on the outskirts of the group of Sisters, holding Caba's reins. The Aes Sedai were sitting their horses despondently, whilst being harangued by Cadsuane. He did his best not to glance at the Mistress with commiseration too often. The search for the False Dragon was not going well. Since running into the formidable Green Sister, their lives had become more complicated, certainly.

They were camped outside the small town of Irinjavar, where reinforcements had been waiting to join them. Some of these cavalrymen were galloping their horses up and down behind, using their short lances to spear tent-pegs set in rows on the grass, an activity that called for great skill. Atual had noticed some of them earlier, they looked like riders from the Plain of Lances. Now, one of the newcomers noticed him also.

"Atual? Atual Aendwyn? By the Hand of the Creator, it _is_ you! Why are you not _dead_ yet?" The voice was deep. Surprisingly deep, when one saw the man who owned it.

Atual turned, and gazed up at the grinning Saldaean Lord, perched high in the saddle of his massive war-horse. Despite looking a little incongruous up there, like a child clinging to the back of an ox, the man controlled his mount with deft touches of the knees as though born in the saddle.

"Lord Wakime. I could ask the same thing of _you!_"

"It will take more than the Great Blight to kill Wakime! Horse-Lord Alven Wakime, First-Rider of the Plain of Lances, is a great hero. And heroes _never_ die!"

"Heroes _always_ die, but at least not until the end of their story," Atual pointed out, reaching up to grip the proffered gauntlet. It was fine Illian leather, studded with garnets, he noted. Lord Wakime had certainly not changed when it came to garbing himself with all the subtlety of a Tanchico gaming-house hostess!

The Saldaean Lord stabbed his lance down into the ground and vaulted nimbly from the saddle, the heels of his silver-chased riding-boots thumping firmly into the mud in front of Atual. From the back of the impressive animal that stamped and tossed its head (until he gave it a hard slap on the withers and it quieted) Lord Wakime had, of course, looked down upon the Warder. Now, standing before Atual, he had to look up. Quite far up. Wakime was a rather small man – but his engaging enthusiasm and overpowering personality always made him seem much larger.

Added to which, there was his vaunted reputation – 'the size of a mouse but the heart of a lion' was what Saldaeans said of him, particularly those who had ridden with Lord Wakime along (and often quite far across) the Blightborder. Atual did not have to look at the blade at Wakime's belt to know that there was a heron-mark on it. He had been there when Wakime had slain the Blademaster who had formerly held it.

Lord Wakime had added to his meagre height with a ridiculous (yet oddly impressive) pointed hat of red velvet, bedecked with the long plume of some great bird that lived in Shara, obtained at great cost from an Atha'an Miere Cargomaster who made a side-line of such items, in addition to the trade in silk. His coat was of shimmering white satin, worked with gold embroidered wolves (the symbol of his House) as well as slashed with red silk, his tight fawn trews of the finest calf-skin.

For many years now, Lord Wakime had competed with his arch-enemy, Lord Baldhere of Kandor, for the disputed title of best-dressed man in the Borderlands. The two Border Lords hated each other with a passion, seeing them in the same room was much akin to watching two strutting male peacocks slowly circling each other before resorting to pecking and clawing for dominance!

Lord Wakime had further reputation to add to this – that of the Borderland's most successful (if least tall) womaniser! Though he had had his face slapped more times than he could remember, females of all ages and stations often found him fascinating, were disarmed by his diminutive size and great charm, combined with the overwhelming level of _persistence_ he put into the chase! Even the most sensible among them could not help but be at least _interested_ in the small, ardent fellow who seemed fully prepared to ride to Shayol Ghul and back if they would but let him into their bedchamber later on that night… Wakime had made notable and often surprising conquests where bigger, handsomer men had failed miserably!

"It has been nearly five years!" exclaimed Lord Wakime, "five whole years since we slew the Darkfriends together and bathed ourselves in their steaming blood!"

"I remember _killing_ them," Atual responded, "but not the bathing part…"

"Wakime was being figurative! _Five years!_ Wakime cannot quite believe it! Where does the time go? _Where?_" He examined Atual's face critically, then prodded him in the chest with a finger, having to reach up somewhat to do so. "Dear-me, you are getting _old_, Atual Gaidin! You look wrinkled, my friend, like an apple that has been left on the windowsill for too long!" Wakime threw back his head and laughed.

Atual could not help grinning in response. Wakime had a few more lines around his tilted eyes than he had before, he noticed, but the small, carefully-trimmed moustache beneath his hawkish nose was as dark as ever… perhaps he dyed it? Probably. _And_ he had one of those absurd Domani beauty-patches stuck to his cheek, a dark scrap of felt in the shape of a snarling wolf's head… what a popinjay!

"What always puzzles me about you, Lord Wakime," Atual stated, "is how you have managed to get as old as _you_ are, _without_ one of the Sisters bonding you!"

Lord Wakime grinned. "Oh, they have _tried_ over the years, those women of the White Tower… Wakime once had to abandon both horse _and_ clothing (including a fine pair of Tairen boots he much regrets) and swim a violent torrent to escape a Battle Ajah Sister to whom he had made certain… promises."

Atual smiled. He already knew about it. It had happened shortly after Myrelle Sedai had been raised to the shawl and was seeking her first Warder, a man of loyalty and responsibility. Unfortunately, she managed to find Lord Wakime instead! The diminutive Saldaean Border-Lord had sworn faithfully to kneel and be Bonded when they had consummated their mutual passion, and afterwards, with Myrelle resting her head against his shoulder, whispering endearments into his ear, occasionally nibbling his earlobe with her small, white teeth, he had felt fully prepared to go through with it, even eager.

It was a fine life, that of a Warder, Lord Wakime considered, though he did not much care for the cloaks… a man's cloak should have the decency to stay the _same_ colour… but Myrelle was beautiful, intelligent, passionate… she _deserved_ him! Even if some of those names she was whispering into his ear sounded a little odd… did she _really_ think that he was her 'love-bunny?' Oh well, Wakime did not mind – he had been called some stranger things than _that_ by women! But then, one of those fondly whispered words, that was not a silly name like 'my little dormouse' but more of a _proposal_, jumped firmly into the front of his mind – _marriage?_

Wakime had thought about it for a few moments, then told Myrelle that he needed to go outside and use the jakes, promptly taking a running-dive into a mountain river at night whilst wearing only a red silk scarf around his neck! There were committed bachelors… and then, there was Alven Wakime.

Atual nodded sagely. "Yes, I have heard all about those promises you made! Nuhel told me about it once, when he'd had an ale too many…" He lowered his voice conspiratorially. "Word to the wise, Lord Wakime… avoid Tar Valon, she heard you were there that last time – and if you _ever_ hear that Myrelle Sedai is on her way up to the Plain of Lances, I strongly suggest that you ride for the Blight on the fastest horse you can find and don't come back south until she's got tired of hunting for you!"

Lord Wakime winced. "Is she _still _annoyed with me about that?" he groaned, "it was many years ago! Wakime hoped Myrelle might have forgiven him." His voice became more hopeful. "Or forgotten..?"

Atual shrugged. "Men forget, but never forgive. Women forgive… well, eventually… but they _never_ forget a Light-cursed thing!"

"It is true, my friend, it is sadly true…"

"And 'annoyed' doesn't even _begin_ to describe it…"

"Wakime can imagine… he would rather face many Trollocs than a woman he has angered… in fact, on one occasion, he _did_…"

"Talking of angry women, why is the Lord-Marshall's wife in such a taking?"

Lord Wakime's tone was disparaging. "Oh, the Headman's household is in uproar, the Lady Deira ready to chew holes in a saddle, enough to make Wakime want to head for the hills! Horrid woman! Sometimes, Wakime thinks that she would like to pick him up and wring his neck, like a chicken! She will have to _catch_ him first! Wakime runs faster than the wind when angry ladies are after him!"

Lord Wakime laughed again. He laughed a lot. The man seemed to carry a sense of personal celebration around with him wherever he went, and it had an infectious quality. Though he often left a trail of confusion and chaos in his wake. Furious females, also. North of the Blightborder, Wakime was the most dedicated of men, conducting his war on the Shadow with guile and determination. South of that border… well, irresponsible was _far _too weak a word! Wakime lowered his voice, confidingly;

"The Marshal's trouble is not to do with the False Dragon, for we will spit him on our lances and roast him over our fires, ere long! It is his daughter, young Zarine, you know… she has absconded, run away… gone to catch herself a man, one would expect, drag him back by his ear to be married into her House, poor fellow!"

Lord Wakime visibly shuddered, at the thought of marriage. There was only one woman he would have ever pledged himself to, have made that terrifying, life-long commitment for. But she had refused his suit. For good reasons, admittedly, Aes Sedai rarely married (with the exception of _Myrelle_, it would seem) but it had _still_ felt like a cruel rejection, nonetheless! He had cried himself to sleep every night for weeks! Well, for a week, at least… But even after five years, the flame still burned, so Wakime asked the question that Atual had been fully expecting him to ask.

"Wakime sees your Aes Sedai amongst the Sisters, Atual Gaidin, perhaps he will pay his respects to Ellythia Sedai presently, when the frightening old Battle Sister has finished shouting at them… but please tell, where is the lovely Shrinalla?"

"In Illian. With _both_ of her Warders. And you know what Battle Ajah Sisters are like, with their Warders…"

"Oh…" Lord Wakime looked down at his gaudy boots, glumly.

Atual felt bad for him. "She still carries that sword you gave her though."

Lord Wakime brightened. He was never down for long.

"The cavalry blade, with the dirty rhymes engraved on it!" Atual added.

"Dirty..? It was the finest love-poetry!" Lord Wakime was mildly outraged.

"No it wasn't! Did _you_ write it?"

"Of _course_ not, Wakime doesn't know how to write bloody poems! A young Gleeman wrote the verse, after hearing the luscious Shrina described to him… he only asked for a gold mark, Wakime gave him _ten_… talented fellow, came from the exquisite Shrinalla's home-town…"

"What, Falme? That reminds me, have you heard those rumours about the Hawkwing's lost army coming out of the sea, riding on monsters?"

"Nonsense! If the rumour-mongers wish to view monsters, Wakime will take them up to the Blight, though he may not bring them back again! But I think young Roth certainly _spoke_ like a Falman… he also wrote a few songs about Wakime's exploits, said he would pass them out to other Gleemen, though no-one seems to be singing them much, yet… still, a plucky lad for a southerner, good eye for the ladies, wanted to follow Wakime through the Borderlands and record his adventures, went all the way to Shienar with him. Even took him north of the Blight-border to show him what a Worm looked like, but the cursed thing ate our horses and nearly us too… had to _walk_ all the way back to Fal Dara!"

* * *

Finding that she had run-out of both invective _and_ breath, Cadsuane turned to glare at the clean-shaven young man in the smart livery who was hovering nearby.

"Yes, boy?"

"My Lord Bashere, Guardian of the Blightborder, Defender of the Heartland, Protector of the-"

"_Yes_, you may skip all of that. What does he _want?_"

"My Lord Bashere requests the honour of the great Cadsuane Melaidhrin's presence at dinner tonight. Please feel free to bring any guests of your choice."

Cadsuane sighed. "Will his _wife_ be there?"

"No, Honoured Aes Sedai. Lord Bashere has sent the Lady Deira and the other Noblewomen back to Maradon, for their own safety."

"Ah, so _that_ was what all the shouting and screaming was about this morning. Walls made of canvas are so _thin_. Very well, tell young Davram that I shall attend."

When the messenger had departed, Cadsuane pointed to Ellyth and Rashiel.

"You and you. We are dining with the Marshall-General of Saldaea, so try not to embarrass me with your table manners. And make sure you bring your Gaidin too, young Ellythia, _after_ he has finished chattering to that lecherous dwarf over there!"

Cadsuane had noted the diminutive Horse-Lord and the handsome Warder leaning their heads together – men really were such terrible gossips! She knew all about Wakime (she made it her business to know all about _everybody_) and strongly disapproved of the fellow. Both his morals _and_ his dress-code! "Yes, bring Master Aendwyn to dinner… I like a well set-up man to look at, even if he's not on _my_ arm!"

Ellyth resisted the urge to glower. Barely. "I could scarcely keep him away, Cadsuane Sedai," she murmured, "Atual Gaidin tends to go where I do."

"As a good Warder should."

* * *

Taking into account the guests sat at the long table lined with candelabra, as well as their chairs behind which the servants stood and the servants themselves, the tent, though the largest in the encampment, was somewhat crowded. In addition to people and furniture, it was also filled with a babble of conversation. Lord Bashere sat at one end of the table, Cadsuane Sedai at the other. Ellyth was halfway along, crammed between a pair of Saldaean officers (who persisted in communicating with each other across her) Atual hovering behind. He had refused a seat, probably as much to avoid having to talk to anyone as to better guard his Aes Sedai. She passed him back a glass of the rather mediocre wine and returned to picking at her salad.

Rashiel sat across from Ellyth. _She_ seemed to be enjoying herself, at least. Ellyth frowned. Lord Wakime was leaning toward her ear again, whispering something sordid, no-doubt. Rashiel giggled. Thank goodness Shrina had refused to marry the odious little man! He would surely have brought her nothing but tears!

Ellyth had changed into the dark-blue silk that she had managed to acquire during their brief sojourn in Maradon, further to the south, and considered it an acceptable garment for the dinner table, decently modest about the bust, but displaying her slim, graceful carriage to best effect. While the dress-makers of the Borderlands certainly did not compare to those of Tar Valon, they did not seem to be _quite_ so rapacious either! Rashiel, on the other hand, though her crimson-silk gown was well-cut, seemed to be doing her best to display her two best assets to the world!

Lord Wakime whispered something else, leaning closer and Rashiel smiled her slow smile, then prodded at the Saldaean Nobleman with her fork, in supposed discouragement. Wakime flinched, pretending to be injured, then laughed, Rashiel laughing too, their faces close together. Ellyth scowled. She had dropped her napkin earlier, and, bending to recover it, had noticed that Rashiel had slipped off a shoe and was stroking her stockinged foot suggestively against Wakime's leg! Why did the two of them not just slide beneath the table and get on with it? She doubted that anyone would even _notice_. Why did Rashiel not just- _wait, what was that?_

Ellyth turned abruptly to the tall fellow on her left. She thought he was called Tumad something… ah, yes… "Did you say something about _Aiel_, Captain Ahzkan?"

The young officer with the prominent nose and thick beard blinked in surprise (no doubt he had forgotten she was there!) then inclined his head politely. "Yes, Ellythia Sedai, I was just mentioning that a scout reported seeing an Aielman earlier."

This came in one of those lulls in conversation, and as often happens in these situations, the attention of the table turned to Tumad. He coloured a little.

"He is a reliable man… he only glimpsed the Aiel very briefly, but…"

"Aiel," muttered Lord Bashere, who had moodily sat there all evening drinking glass after glass of wine with little apparent effect, "that is _all_ we need…"

"There have been reports of Aiel sightings from throughout the Borderlands and beyond," Cadsuane Sedai stated, "it would seem that they are coming west of the Dragonwall in small groups, as though searching for something…"

Ellyth glanced over her shoulder at Atual, raising an eyebrow. He shrugged.

"Wakime saw an Aiel also, a while ago… up in the Blight, it was, over on the Kandori side… the Aielman was sneaking about amongst the slimy trees… he was wearing his veil, but oddly, it was not black, as one might expect to see, but _red_…"

All eyes had now turned to Lord Wakime. He grinned broadly.

"Wakime would have stopped to investigate further, but at the time he was being pursued by an enormous ravening monster that wished to devour him!"

A mutter of discontent rose about the table. The Saldaeans had no great desire to hear another of Lord Wakime's horrendous tales of some of the things that lived in the deep Blight… he had told three, already! They were _eating!_

Rashiel had no such reservations. "Goodness," she exclaimed, "a monster! Was it a _Worm_, Lord Wakime? You were telling me of Worms just now, I recall!"

Lord Wakime smiled winningly, taking Rashiel's hand and patting it gently.

"Dear lady, it remains unknown _what_ it was that chased poor Wakime relentlessly those many miles… he has never seen one before, and hopes never to again! But _whatever_ it was, Wakime suspects that it eats Worms for its breakfast!"

Cadsuane Sedai sniffed loudly, and Wakime released Rashiel's hand. But only after lasciviously brushing his lips against it. The temperature in the tent seemed to drop, but of course, Wakime did not notice. Conversation slowly resumed.

A servant pushed rudely past Atual, who glowered at the man's back as he leant solicitously over Ellyth. "More bread, Aes Sedai?" he asked, gruffly.

"No thank-you."

"Another serviette, perhaps?"

"No. Thank-you."

"May I interest you in…"

"No, you may not!" Ellyth glared up at the foolish fellow, and blinked, surprised. He was not dressed like the other servants, in the dark serviceable garb of Lord Bashere's household. He was wearing much finer apparel, a big, bald man with a hard face and large moustaches beneath his beak of a nose. He looked more like one of the soldiers, he certainly had enough scars… but his eyes were vague, his face placidly blank. Lord Bashere noticed, and stood. He looked embarrassed, regretful.

"Hachari," he called, in a surprisingly gentle tone of voice. The big man looked at him, blinking. "Hachari, let the Sister alone. She does not require-"

"But I wish to _serve_, my Lord!" Hachari protested, sounding almost angry. Atual put one hand on his sword hilt, the other gripping the fellow by the shoulder.

"Peace, Gaidin," called Lord Bashere, "Hachari is not dangerous." He shook his head, ruefully. "At least, not any _more_…"

A matronly woman wearing a house-keeper's tabard over her dress bustled into the tent, red-faced with consternation.

"Forgive me, my Lord," she apologised, "he got away from me again!"

Tumad and the other Saldaean officer rose and carefully took an arm each, escorting Hachari from the tent. "I only want to serve," the big man plaintively observed, as they did so, "to serve and to obey…"

Lord Bashere sank back into his chair, scowling darkly, and held out his glass for more wine. Cadsuane Sedai watched, consideringly.

Bashere drained his glass, then stood again, hurling it to the floor and gripping his sword hilt. "I will see Taim dead!" he snarled, "I will-"

"My Lord!"

"_What?_ What is it _now?_"

It was the same young messenger who had brought the dinner invitation. His face was flushed with excitement, and perhaps a measure of fear.

"My Lord, it is the Dragonsworn Army!"

"Yes, what of it?"

"They are attacking, my Lord!"

"_Where_ are they attacking?"

"_Here_, my Lord!" From the edge of the encampment rose the sound of alarmed shouts and clashing steel. Something exploded nearby, there was the roar of flames, followed by loud, agonised screams…

"Mazrim Taim is attacking the camp!"

* * *

Though in the end, it proved absurdly easy to take the False Dragon. It was as though the Creator fought on their side, that day. And then, there had been the Vision in the sky. Seeing their leader thrown from his mount and captured, seeing _that_, up above their heads… the few surviving Dragonsworn were probably still running! As she followed Cadsuane's brisk pace through the somewhat scorched encampment, Ellyth considered the Vision. Shrina always insisted that the Last Battle would come in their lifetimes… Ellyth had scoffed, but was starting to think that her friend might very well be right about this. Shrina talking sense? It had to happen eventually!

Ellyth's new dress was now liberally spotted with blood, not hers, and she felt exhausted. Her skill with Healing was passable, but it drained her far more than using Fire. She and Cadsuane had been busy, moving through the tents full of screaming, wounded armsmen, doing their best to save the lives of some, passing over those who were too far gone. The quiet ones, usually – if a man was too close to death to even scream anymore, he was probably beyond Healing.

At one point, Ellyth had risen from the bedside of a short, bearded plainsman whose bad neck wound had tested her meagre ability to its limit, and swayed, her head spinning, on the verge of fainting. She had recovered herself and nodded to the fellow, who smiled up at her in gratitude, a small red mark on his neck the only sign that he had been hurt. Turning, she had seen Cadsuane looking at her.

Cadsuane had wordlessly removed one of the ornaments from her hair, passing it to Ellyth. "Use that," she snapped, before turning back to the struggling, sobbing youth being held down on the camp-bed by his comrades, blood pumping from a deep belly wound. "Lie still, boy!" Cadsuane growled, seizing his head between her hands. The youth jerked upright on the bloodstained sheets, then fell back, bathed in sweat, gasping. Ellyth glanced at his belly. There was not even a scar to indicate that he had ever been injured. Cadsuane was strong indeed. The old Green Sister leant over the bed and ruffled the young man's dark hair whilst his comrades grinned. "There, pretty lad – you shall live to break a few hearts yet!"

The two Aes Sedai moved on, with yet more Healing to give… as there always was, after a battle. The golden hummingbird _ter'angreal_ that Cadsuane had pressed into Ellyth's hand proved to contain nearly as much _saidar_ as she herself could hold. She had no idea what it was, would have given a pretty to be able to examine it further, but had used it to Heal far more wounded men than she ever could have, unaided. It exhausted her, but it was a good feeling, giving life back to a dying man whilst his friends watched approvingly. Shrina would be so jealous – she might be of the Battle Ajah, but had never been near a proper battlefield in her life!

Unfortunately, Cadsuane did not forget to demand her 'little nectar-thief' back when they were finally finished. Ellyth passed her the golden hummingbird and practically had her fingers snatched away as well! Cadsuane was certainly possessive about those things… did she have whimsical names for her other _ter'angreal_ as well? The woman was a bloody enigma! Of course, had the Reds been available, more lives might have been saved. But _they_ had another task to occupy them.

All around, Saldaean soldiers were celebrating the victory noisily, waving bottles and singing harsh war-songs. Some were performing energetic dances in the midst of circles of their clapping comrades, kicking their legs out in the centre or leaping and spinning about the edge. Though some armsmen stood quietly by themselves, staring at nothing. Ellyth suspected that, like her, they were thinking about what they had seen, the flash of light, the two adversaries battling in the sky. The tall young man with the red hair… who was he? She had her suspicions...

"Hurry up, girl, stop dragging your feet!" Ellyth quickened her pace a little, following Cadsuane into the large tent. Atual was just inside the entrance, sword unsheathed, standing watch over the man wrapped in chains in the heavy oak chair, who sat at the centre. He was dressed in rich, dark velvet, silver-embroidered, rather muddy and torn, as one might expect from someone recently thrown from their horse.

Rashiel and the other three Red Sisters sat cross-legged on the floor, each occupying a corner of the large, square tent, arranged around the chair's occupant, staring inward, their faces set with concentration. They all held the Power, Ellyth could see the thickness of their weaves, much stronger than she could have managed. It was reassuring to see them there, calmly holding the strength of a powerful male channeller in abeyance. This was what they had trained for, after all… but it was nice to know that Reds were good for something, at least!

Mazrim Taim looked up as they came in. He had the tilted eyes and hooked nose of a Saldaean, though his beard was trimmed short, in the Domani style. The man said nothing, just poured hatred from his dark, mesmeric eyes.

Cadsuane gazed at him for a long moment, then addressed Rashiel.

"Has he tried to break the shield again?"

"No, Cadsuane Sedai."

"Did you tell him what I _told_ you to tell him?"

"Yes, Cadsuane Sedai."

Atual had his sword unsheathed for a reason. Cadsuane's message to Mazrim Taim had been rather stark… another attempt to break his shield, and there would be no chances taken – the grim Warder was to behead him, there and then!

Cadsuane nodded. "Tie-off the shield and leave us."

The Red Ajah Aes Sedai had tied-off their weaves and risen to their feet before they hesitated, such had become the power of Cadsuane's words over them. The senior Red Sister attempted to protest;

"But Cadsuane Sedai, that goes against all good practice!"

"Phaw! If I so much as sense the man trying to break the knots, I will-"

"You will _what_, old woman?" Taim was smiling nastily. "Gentle me before my trial, before your Amyrlin gives her approval? Even the great Cadsuane Melaidhrin might find herself sent to a farm to hoe potatoes, for such an offence!"

"I dislike being interrupted by rude, ill-mannered boys. And in any event, I doubt that potatoes are any more aggravating than rose-bushes. Atual Gaidin?"

"Yes, Mistress Melaidhrin?" Atual glanced at Ellyth apologetically.

"Be so good as to strike Master Taim with your fist, as hard as you see fit."

Atual sheathed his blade and glanced at his Aes Sedai, not _quite_ waiting for her nod before taking a quick step and backhanding Mazrim Taim across the face. The man's head jerked back, then he slumped forward in the chair, as far as the chains would allow him. When he looked up, there was a purple bruise forming on his cheek, a split lip dripping blood, and his smile had quite disappeared. His eyes stared murder, first at Atual, who gazed levelly back, then at Cadsuane, who was nodding approvingly at _her_ Warder! Ellyth scowled.

_Commanding my Gaidin?__ Insufferable woman!_

"Thank-you, Atual Gaidin." Cadsuane went over to a table laden with utensils and picked up a large clay jug, pouring out the water and brandishing it by the handle. Mazrim spat blood onto the floor, and attempted to resume his goading smile. Ellyth observed him closely. He did not seem quite as certain as he had been. Cadsuane tended to have that effect on people, even False Dragons. Even _real_ Dragons, for all she knew! She pitied the fellow, if he _had_ been reborn, if Cadsuane got hold of him.

Cadsuane took a step closer, gazing down at Mazrim Taim as though he were a bug she had not yet decided whether to step upon. She poked a finger against the bruise and he hissed, flinching back.

"_That_ was for interrupting me. If I sense you attempting to unravel the weaves that keep you shielded from the True Source, then I will immediately break this jug over your head! Nod your head if you understand, boy." Taim did not trouble to nod.

"What do you want, old w-" Cadsuane raised the jug threateningly. "What do you _want_, Aes Sedai?" Taim managed to make the title sound like a vile slur.

Cadsuane ignored him, turned and stared coldly at the four Red Sisters, still lingering by the tent-flap, their eyes wide. "I _thought_ I had made my wishes plain. Is there some reason that you are still _here_, children?" The Red Sisters wavered, but none stood as high as Cadsuane, and while she had no real authority here, she was still who she was, and they were who they were… and one could not readily argue with a Legend. Especially when the legend might take it into her head to deliver another savage switching! Cadsuane took a step toward the Reds, at which they all found a pressing need to leave the tent. Rashiel was the last to file out. She gave Ellyth a cold sideways glance as she did so. Ellyth smiled at her, like a cat with the cream.

Cadsuane noticed, glowered at Ellyth. Though at least she did not speak as loudly as usual, so that only the young Blue Sister heard her hissed words. "Stop that, girl! You are Aes Sedai, as is young Rashiel, hard as it is for me to believe. In my day, you would both still be wearing only the Ring, if that. When _I_ was a novice, the Sisters did not consider anyone who had not worn the Shawl for _at least_ a half century worthy of the title, and _certainly_ did not let them go gallivanting around, chasing False Dragons and… and whatever it is that _you_ are up to! Still won't tell me, eh?"

Ellyth shook her head, not trusting herself to speak.

"Phaw! You're a stubborn one! If you and Rashiel continue to behave like two alley-cats, glaring and hissing at each other, then I shall just have to put you both in a sack and let you fight it out! Do I make myself clear?"

Ellyth did her best to compose herself. "Yes, Cadsuane Sedai," she murmured meekly, folding her hands. Cadsuane smiled.

"There! _That_ is the proper respect I like to see." Cadsuane chucked Ellyth beneath the chin – she jumped! "You will do well, girl, with a little more seasoning. Will she not, Atual Gaidin?"

Atual was staring down at Mazrim Taim, who was staring back, insolently. He turned his head, the long hair swaying against his back.

"I have always been honoured to serve my Aes Sedai, Mistress Melaidhrin."

"There, now _that_ is an equivocal answer to an unfair question! You have your well-mannered Gaidin nicely trained-up, girl! Why, if I were only a couple of decades younger, I'd steal his Bond from you, and probably marry him into the bargain!" Atual winced.

Ellyth barely heard. She had just received something that sounded almost like _praise_… from _Cadsuane Melaidhrin!_ Again, she felt as though she was going to faint! _Wait, what was that about marriage..?_

"Stop daydreaming, girl, and make us private."

Ellyth quickly embraced the Source, though she could barely channel a trickle of _saidar_ after the Healing, just enough for the privacy-ward. She ensured that the warding extended well around the tent before she tied-off the weave. She might have need of it herself, hopefully.

"Mistress Melaidhrin?"

"Yes, Atual Gaidin?"

"Taim killed Aes Sedai, Mistress. He brought war and death to Saldaea. He took two good Bordermen and their brave, noble wives, and turned their brains to _mush_. May I hit him some more?"

"They pulled knives under a flag of parley! At least I did not kill th-"

Taim's protestations were cut short by another hard blow to the face. He slumped forward in the chair again, coughing, then grimly spat more blood. Atual rubbed his knuckles.

"That will do, Atual Gaidin. For now, at least."

Cadsuane loomed over the False Dragon once more. Now, he had a black eye forming, to balance the purple bruise on the other side of his face.

"What was it, exactly, that you did?" Cadsuane asked, quietly.

"I declared myself to be the Dragon of course, you crazy old…"

Taim trailed off as Atual took a threatening step toward him. Ellyth moved to stand on the other side of Cadsuane, so that now he had a trio of people who detested him, arrayed before the chair, staring down coldly. It did not seem to affect him overmuch, but Taim did at least lick his lips and take a deep breath.

"Atual could continue beating him for a while, then I could Heal him, and then Atual could beat him further?" Ellyth suggested. Atual nodded approvingly.

Cadsuane shook her head impatiently. "We don't have time for that." She pulled Taim's head up by the hair. "I do not refer to your self-acclamation, but rather to Hachari and Musar, and their wives… what did you _do_ to them? Exactly?"

"I don't know wh-"

"Yes, you do. What weaves did you use? Why do two Saldaean Lords and their proud Lady wives now wish only to serve and obey?"

Atual raised his fist threateningly, Taim glared at him before answering.

"It is just something that I can do, I don't know what it is, and why should I even try explaining it to you anyway, you old-" Taim glanced at Atual, swallowed some more blood that trickled from his lip. "You know as well as I, _saidin_ and_ saidar_ are completely different… I do not know what it is, what it is called, I just use weaves of all five Powers to make someone think they are something that they are not… it was one of the first things I ever did, before I realised that I could channel, even. And I have got much _better _at it, over the years."

Taim grinned slowly, the blood between his teeth giving the expression added menace. "Remove my shield and I'll gladly demonstrate. Why, I can make this violent Warder dog of yours believe that he is one of the Tuatha'an… for the rest of his life, the idea of even so much as _touching_ his sword would horrify him!"

Atual bit back a muffled curse. Clearly, he would prefer _not_ to become a Tinker, and follow the Way of the Leaf… Ellyth found this revelation unsurprising. And found herself angered that this smiling fiend had dared to threaten her Warder!

"The bright, garish clothing would hardly suit you, Atual," she murmured, her eyes drilling into Taim's. "Though your singing voice might improve." Atual snorted. Taim glanced from him to her, uncertainly.

_H__e is _my_ Warder, not hers, curse you! _

"Hush, girl!" Cadsuane waved the clay jug threateningly. "I _hate_ to waste perfectly good crockery, Taim, but if you allude to the removal of your shield again, I _guarantee_ that you shall wake with a very sore head! Now, this… vile _thing_, that you do to people – can it be reversed?"

"No."

"You will have to do better than 'no,' boy."

"I am not a boy! I am Mazrim Taim! The Dragon of the North!"

"Phaw! Not any more, _boy!_ I have delved all four of your victims thoroughly, and even attempted Healing, to little effect. _Can you remove it?_"

"No, burn-you! I tried once, just to see if I could! It is impossible. What is done is done..."

Cadsuane eyed the False Dragon consideringly for a long moment. "Were I to say the word 'Compulsion' to you – would that have any meaning?"

"No. Should it?"

Cadsuane sighed. Then with a note of finality, she muttered, "A waste of time." She replaced the jug on the table and turned to go. Ellyth lingered, staring down at Taim. He wore a small half-smile as his dark, tilted eyes followed Cadsuane, who paused at the tent-flap, looking back at Ellyth. "Well, are you coming?"

"If it pleases you, I wished to ask the False Dragon a question of my own?"

Cadsuane looked at her speculatively for a long moment. Ellyth expected her to refuse permission and was prepared to argue the point, though without much hope of carrying it. Instead, Cadsuane shrugged. "I shall wait outside for a hand-count of one-hundred, then send the Reds back in. If you sense Taim attempting to break the Shield, what will you do?"

"I suppose that I will have to tell Atual Gaidin to kill him, Cadsuane Sedai."

"See that you do." Cadsuane spared a final glance at Taim, and sniffed disparaging. "Master Ablar was _slightly_ more polite and _slightly_ less arrogant. At least he lead me a respectable chase – _he_ gave me far more sport than _you_ did! Falling off your horse like a drunken farmer on his way back from the tavern! Phaw!"

Taim snarled angrily, but Cadsuane had already left, whisking the tent flap shut behind her. He turned his attention to Ellyth. "So, the old cow leaves me alone with the little heifer! I'll tell you nothing, witch!"

"Atual, does your hand hurt yet?"

"No Mistress, nor will it for some time. May I knock out one of his teeth?"

"Mmm. One of the _front_ teeth, I should think…"

Atual took a step, raising his fist threateningly. Taim flinched down in the chair a little, then glared at Ellyth.

"Alright! Ask, then."

"You are from Saldaea…"

"Is _that _your question? You _know_ that I am! We are _in_ Saldaea at the moment, in case it had escaped your notice!"

"Yet I have heard it said that you hail from a particularly barren, uninhabited part of westernmost Saldaea…"

"The coast, below World's End, down near the southern border. What of it?"

Atual grunted. "_That_ is why he never learned the art of the sword, Mistress. Taim is no true Borderlander, but little better than a Domani…"

"At least I do not come from a rat-infested midden in the middle of a stinking lake, where the long-haired boy-men cower like curs if a woman narrows her eyes!"

"Might I hit him with the jug, Mistress? I have never hit someone with a jug. I wonder what it will be like…"

"Possibly, in a moment, Atual." Ellyth cleared her throat daintily, leant closer, lowering her voice. The Privacy Weave was still in place, but she had her suspicions about some of those other _ter'angreal_ in Cadsuane's hair, and what they could do. "Various items were found about your person, and in your baggage-train. An _angreal_ that works for male channellers only, I presume. Some _ter'angreal_, of unknown provenance. You acquired these things in a particular place, yes?"

Taim stared at her for a moment, then he grinned, his eyes lighting-up.

"You seek what lies up in the peaks! _Now_ I know who you are – the Amadici _ter'angreal_-finder! The one who senses them! Where is your red-headed friend?"

Ellyth attempted to conceal her shock. Curse this man, his arrogance had drained away a little in the presence of Cadsuane, but there seemed an endless reservoir of it bubbling up from deep within him!

"How do you know of us, Taim?" she demanded. "I mean, of _me_."

"A Darkfriend once told me of you, before I killed him. He served a woman who might have been Black Ajah, were she ever even a Sister. A woman named-"

"Arachnae Kirikil. Yes, we are… old acquaintances."

"She hates you deeply, he said! Something to do with Haddon Mirk..?"

"She is of no concern. Her followers are scattered, her companions dead. May the Shadow take her. It is of World's End I wish to speak, and what lies there. If I give you Healing, will you provide me with information about… the peaks?"

"I don't _need _your Healing, _ter'angreal_-finder. Besides, I only know what everyone _else _knows, which is that if you go up there, you very probably won't come back again. The whole mountain-range is riddled with powerful artefacts from the Age of Legends, and most of them are extremely dangerous!" He glanced at Atual, then back at her. "I found my _angreal_ up there, and other devices, it is true… but the journey nearly killed me. Why should I help you?"

"Because if we go there, it might kill us too," Atual stated, flatly.

Taim nodded thoughtfully. "Your guard-dog makes a good point." He gazed at Ellyth consideringly for a moment. "You are not Red Ajah, like the others, are you? Any more than the crazy old Sister is?"

"We are not. Cadsuane is of the Green Ajah, I of the Blue. _Not_ the Red. That, incidentally, is why I have a _Warder_."

"Oh, he is _your_ Warder? I though he must belong to the old lady, as he takes her orders so readily!" Atual snarled angrily, Ellyth put a restraining hand on his arm. "It is Reds I hate the most, you see…" Taim added, musingly.

"An understandable attitude for a male channeller to take, yes?"

"Yes. Yes-yes-yes." Taim gazed at her a moment longer, clearly making up his mind whether to tell her something. Finally, he shook his head, muttered indiscernibly under his breath, and spoke, his voice pitched as low as hers.

"Very well. There is a man who lives outside the village of Seleisin, at the foot of the mountains, a huntsman and woodcutter named Phelyn Bartok. He also guides people into the peaks, for a fee. People like _us_, with an interest in certain… items. Tell him you wish to be guided to where he lead 'the-man-who-makes-fire.' Use those exact words. Do _not _mention my name. Phelyn knows who I am, _what_ I am, but he is hardly what you might call Dragonsworn." Taim laughed, bitterly.

"Though I do not think you will find anyone left in this accursed nation who will admit to having been _that_… even before my horse threw me, that vision appeared, up in the sky… and they dropped their arms and ran like rabbits!"

"You do not think that it was a true vision, Master Taim?"

Taim eyed Ellyth. He smiled coldly. "True? I will tell you something, my proud Aes Sedai, with your brave Warder by your side… since, if you mean to go to World's End, you will probably not be alive long enough to share this with anyone!" He leant forward, lowering his voice further. "I… am… _false!_ Not merely a False Dragon… I have _always_ been false, even _before_ I raised the banner of the Kinslayer! But that tall fellow you saw up there, the one who probably thinks that he has killed Ba'alzamon… he is the _real thing! _He is the Dragon Reborn, the Lord of the Morning, whose coming was foretold… he is the True Dragon, and who better than _I _to know it? Tarmon Gai'don is _coming_, little Sister!" Atual gave Taim a warning slap on the back of the head, Taim glared at him.

Ellyth's mouth felt rather dry. If only Cadsuane had not poured all the water from the jug. It was not every day that you found out that the world was going to end.

"It will all be according to the will of the Pattern," Ellyth managed to say.

Taim shrugged, as much as the chains would allow him. "Go and see Bartok. Be discrete, if you know how to. Perhaps you will find what you are looking for. Perhaps you will find only your deaths. That is the best I can do."

Ellyth nodded, and left the tent. Atual stayed, drawing his blade and taking up a stance behind Taim. But Lord Guye had taught her to always repay like with like, 'a dog for a hog, a hog for a dog, but naught for naught' was one of his favourite rural aphorisms… so before leaving, Ellyth embraced the Source with some difficulty and Healed Mazrim Taim's bruises. His insolent smile made her regret the act, and she came within a whisker of telling Atual to put _more_ on his face!

"I hope that you have a pleasant journey to the Tower, Master Taim."

"Oh, it is some distance to Tar Valon, Mistress Desiama – that _is_ your name, is it not?" Atual leant forward and rapped Taim sharply on the head with his knuckles.

"The _Lady_ Desiama, Aes Sedai," snapped Atual.

Taim flinched, scowling, then resumed his smile. "Well, as I said, it is a long way to the White Tower. Who knows what will happen between here and there?"

On the way out, Ellyth had to practically push past the four scowling Reds as they bustled back in, questioning eyes fixed on her. Rashiel's most of all.

* * *

Ellyth did not say her goodbyes to anyone the next morning. It was not as though she was actually sneaking away… though she and Atual _did_ get up rather early, while it was still dark, and made as little noise as possible while carrying their saddlebags from the tent and saddling their horses. She did not want to be put in the position where Cadsuane might insist on her accompanying Mazrim Taim all the way back to Tar Valon. While she had no right to command her, now that the hunt for the False Dragon was over, Ellyth knew that Cadsuane's insistence on this or any other point would be impossible to ignore. And no-doubt painful to object to!

Besides, Galina Sedai had arrived late the previous evening, with Katerine and seven other Red Sisters, angry to have missed the final act, furious that once again Cadsuane had poached upon her prerogatives! There were now more than enough Red Sisters to keep the False Dragon safely shielded. In fact, there were the full thirteen required...

It was a cold day, Autumn in the Borderlands was akin to Winter anywhere else. Atual was already sitting his horse, gazing west. For the first time in weeks, Ellyth took the Crystal out of her belt-pouch, channelling Spirit into the _ter'angreal_. The flashing crimson light indicated a westerly direction. She had checked and rechecked her calculations, consulted the most accurate maps she could find (Lord Bashere had had a fine selection, fortunately) and there could be no doubt. The Crystal was leading them to World's End. Ellyth spoke softly, without looking up.

"It will be good to be back on the road again, Atual."

"Yes, Mistress."

"And much as it pains me to malign another Sister, I shall be _very_ glad to get as far away from Cadsuane Melaidhrin as humanly possible!" _Or even inhumanly_…

"Not as glad as _I_ will…" Atual muttered under his breath.

Ellyth glanced up at her Warder in surprise.

"Mistress," he added, belatedly.

Ellyth eyed Atual closely. He was looking uncomfortable... Suddenly, it all came together… the compliments about his long hair and fine eyes… his good manners and manly comportment... Ellyth grinned, which she did not do very often. Atual scowled, darkly. She had to resort to putting her hand over her mouth, but could not repress a snort of laughter.

"Dear me! I do believe Cadsuane might be in love with someone!"

"Please don't even _joke_ about it, Mistress! Perhaps we had best depart, before all this noise _wakes_ Cadsuane Sedai?" This wiped the smile from Ellyth's face, and she scrambled hurriedly into the saddle. And Atual whistled, a low, warning note.

Ellyth turned and for a horrible moment thought that it was Cadsuane striding towards them! But no, it was only Rashiel… the girl must have ears like a hare, to have heard them creeping past! Without trying to be too obvious about it, Ellyth slipped the Crystal back into her belt-pouch.

Rashiel had seemingly left her bed in a hurry, was still wearing a thin silk nightgown which displayed a great deal of cleavage, an ermine-trimmed red cape thrown carelessly over it – in _this_ weather! Atual ran his eyes down the outline created by the clingy silk with wordless approval. Rashiel noted his interest and smiled slowly.

Ellyth raised an eyebrow at Atual, who shrugged and returned his attention to the road, walking his horse forward a few paces to give them privacy. Looking back at Rashiel, she caught her giving Atual's wide shoulders an appraising glance in return. Ellyth sniffed disapprovingly. Rashiel's slow smile increased a little.

_S__ay what you like about Rashiel, the less complimentary the better, but she _does_ have unusual attitudes for a Red!_

Rashiel paused a pace away, gazing up at Ellyth with her pale eyes. Ellyth sat her horse mutely, arms crossed.

_Let _her_ speak first!_

Rashiel finally broke the silence. "So, you're off then, Whitecloak?"

"Indeed, Trollop. That is why, unlike you, I happen to be _dressed._"

Rashiel held her cape open a little more, rubbing her cheek against the ermine.

"Do you like it? A gift from a rather charming… friend. You take your leave quietly, I must say! Avoiding someone?"

"Yes – _you_. I would expect that you are accustomed to avoidance, Rashiel."

Rashiel grinned. "You are avoiding _Cadsuane_, if anyone – sneaking away! Perfectly understandable, I would do the same thing in your slippers. Well, you needn't have troubled yourself to rise so early. Cadsuane left late yesterday, shortly after Galina and the others arrived. Just galloped off into the night on that big black horse of hers. Perhaps she has heard of a False Dragon elsewhere?"

"Or the True Dragon, even."

Rashiel's eyes narrowed. "The red-headed, handsome youth, who fought the Dark One, up in the sky… do you think that he..?" She did not finish the sentence.

Ellyth shrugged. "What the Wheel wills," she stated.

Rashiel smiled coldly. "Well, have a safe journey, in any case, Ellyth. Wherever it is that you and your rugged Gaidin are off to _this_ time… finding yet more useless _ter'angreal_ to clutter the Tower with, I would suppose!"

"Thank-you, Rashiel, I hope that I will. For your part, _do_ have an exciting time dragging your cage back to Tar Valon with the _other_ Red Ajah gaolers…"

Rashiel's smile warmed. Her pale eyes glittered.

"Ellyth, while we will _never_ be friends, I would like you to know that I have always counted you as my _favourite_ enemy!"

"Rashiel, I have long felt _exactly_ the same way about you!"

Rashiel watched as they rode away, wondering about the odd crystalline _ter'angreal_ that Ellyth was so secretive of, then bundled her cape closer about her – the weather was too brisk for thin silk, really! – and started back toward her tent. And the Saldaean Nobleman who currently occupied her bed. Lord Wakime was certainly not the usual sort of man she liased with, she suspected that he would be far from a discrete lover, but he was at least _fun!_ And with all the ardour of a man twice his size! Though now that the Head of her Ajah had arrived, she would have to be a lot more careful. There was something about Galina that… scared her. Rashiel shivered, not entirely from the cold, and quickened her pace, anticipating cuddling-up against the nice warm fellow beneath her blankets. Curse Galina Casban, with her prejudices and pruderies – on a cold day like this, a man was at least good for _something!_

* * *

Tevin returned from his scout as the sun began to sink, loping swiftly and silently through the shrubbery and scrambling up the side of the enormous tree without seeming to slow down. He pulled himself up onto the branch that Cohradin occupied, both hidden behind layers of leafy foliage. The other Shaido were further up somewhere, sleeping, they had used Manda's climbing ropes to tie themselves to thick branches. Cohradin could not see them – these 'oak' trees were _huge!_ His whole Sept could have sat up here! Except for old Sadora, of course – while still perfectly capable of climbing up a tree, even at her age, the ancient Wise One would no doubt have refused to. There were wetlanders about down there, amongst the strange forest of trees that grew in straight lines, putting the red fruits that he thought were called 'apples' into baskets… with this in mind, they kept silent, Cohradin signing first;

_did you see her?_

_yes_

_what was she doing?_

_the same thing she does _every_ evening!_

Tevin was proficient enough with the _Sovin Nai_ hand-talk, but not sure of the exact signs to explain that the Aes Sedai, after doing the thing with the Power that curled her hair, always took out the strange crystal disc and looked at the flashing red light on it for a while, perhaps writing something down on her map, perhaps not. He did not need to, however. Cohradin had gone to spy on the Aes Sedai and her Warder as often as he, and was familiar with her rituals also.

Tevin had sneaked through what he knew was called an 'orchard' on his way back, unseen and unheard by the fruit-pickers, and now he pulled a couple of apples from the small harvest that bulged his _cadin'sor,_ passing one to Cohradin. With a wet double-crunch, they bit into the exotic red fruit at the same time.

Cohradin did not know if he cared for the taste of these apple-fruits, though they were certainly less painful to eat than those other things he had tried, that they found growing in a field near to one of the wetlander farms… 'ice-peppers' he thought they were… He had eaten two before he noticed the strange effect they were having on the inside of his mouth, and needed to reach for his waterskin. Young Tevin had foolishly gobbled about ten by this point! He had been very sick…

But Cohradin was thoroughly enjoying his time in the wetlands, though at first he had thought that he would not. It was an interesting place – there was always something new to see or kill or eat, each and every day! Sometimes, all three!

Even so, Cohradin's bones yearned for the Three-fold Land. 'A lizard might enjoy taking a 'swim' in the 'sea' for a time – but eventually, it would remember that it was not a 'fish' and would wish to go back to its desert home…' Gerom had come up with this analogy, he often occupied his mind with such things, and while Cohradin did not know what all of the wetland words had meant, he took the hulking warrior's point. The one-eyed _Sovin Nai_ lizard _would_ return home to Wet Sands – but only _after_ he had found the _Car'a'carn!_ Though there was competition. There were other 'lizards' out there, also seeking He Who Comes With the Dawn…

The Shaido were not the only Aiel hereabouts… two weeks ago they had seen a line of Maidens of the Spear running in the distance, and though Manda had wished to go with them, for some reason Jahdi had refused, urging her spearsister to stay with the Shaido. The month before, and much further south, they had encountered a pair of _algai'd'siswai_ sent to search by their own Wise One. They were just Stone Dogs, and _Shaarad_ Stone Dogs at that, but it was good to meet other Aiel (even if they _were_ stinking Shaarad!) and experience a touch of the familiar in a land where everything else was strange to them.

Something like the Peace of Rhuidean held sway for those who searched in the wetlands – old Sadora had at least supplied _this_ information, along with hearty blows of her stick against Cohradin's head (to provide emphasis) since he was a notorious trouble-maker and feud-starter. So, after a little posturing and the obligatory exchanges of insults, the Aiel had _not _danced the spears but opted instead for sharing a fire and what little food the Shaido had been able to hunt. And comparing notes, also...

"_We have sought the Car'a'c__arn in the empty places between the Borderlands and the Queendom of Andor," confided Gaul of the Imran Shaarad as he tossed a hot squirrel-leg from hand to hand, waiting for it to cool. "Perhaps we will go further south, and look for him in these mountains of the mists." Gaul waited, expectantly._

"_We have looked for the Chief-of-Chiefs up in the Borderlands themselves," responded Cohradin from the other side of the fire, before sinking his teeth into his own squirrel-leg. He did not care if it was too hot to eat yet – he could barely feel anything in his lip anyway, it had been mostly numb since he took the scar on his face. He chewed and swallowed before adding, "it may be that we shall continue our search further north..." _

_Chassin was glaring at him, Gerom shaking his head slowly, lips pursed. They did not approve of his plan. Gerom still wanted to go and find his silly tower, and as for Chassin, while he did not exactly _mind_ that they were following the Aes Sedai whose path they had crossed once more, he just would have liked a _reason_ for doing so. Cohradin was unable to supply him with one, as he was not entirely sure why he was doing it either. But he was beginning to develop a theory…_

_Jahdi was not attending, too busy tormenting young __Tevin, sitting close to him and occasionally running a finger over his smooth, unscarred cheek whilst whispering into the red-faced youth's ear. Gaul had had a flask of oosquai that he had been saving, had contributed it to the meal, since the Shaido were providing the rather scrawny (if tasty) squirrels, and Jahdi had a weak head and had become amorous. While Manda had spent the evening making eyes at Sarien, the other Stone Dog, and the fellow had not been shy in responding! _

_When handsome, blonde-haired Sarien rose from the campfire, mumbling something about 'being tired' he had given the red-headed Maiden a demure glance with his deep green eyes before disappearing into the darkness. Manda had not delayed long in rising also, yawning and muttering 'it is time to sleep' before slipping into the night close on Sarien's heels. It was likely that whatever the two of them were getting up to back there in the bushes, it was not sleeping..._

_Beyond the brief account of where they had been searching and where they planned to search next, neither Aiel spoke__, regarding each other flatly. Chassin and Gerom watched Cohradin cautiously. He was wearing his serious face, they had noticed. Usually, a perpetual half-smile of mirth twisted his already twisted lip, but the two older Sovin Nai had known him long enough to recognise that when that disappeared from his face (though it did not happen very often) Cohradin was capable of doing anything. Anything at all. Including starting a blood-feud with another Clan – he had only averted feud with the Tomanelle by letting the dead man's family beat him with long branches of the rocha-plant. The rocha-plant was the Three-fold Land's most spiny form of cactus - even Cohradin had found _that_ painful!_

_So, Chassin and Gerom watched, wondering if Cohradin and the Stone Dog were going to put aside the truce and dance the spears. Again. Cohradin had met Gaul on a previous occasion, and one of them would have surely killed the other if not for the sudden, howling sandstorm that had descended on the battlefield part-way through the dance, leaving black-veiled warriors staggering through the haze in all directions, searching fruitlessly for the enemy. There was a long scar along Cohradin's ribs that Gaul had put there that day. _

_Eventually, Gaul smiled thinly. There was a deep scar in his shoulder, that Cohradin had put there that day. He leant his long frame forward, cold eyes fixed on Cohradin across the flames._

"Well_, sneaking Shaido?" Gaul demanded._

"_Well _what_, stinking Shaarad?"_

"_Have you even so much as found a single clue of his whereabouts?"_

"_No! Have _you?_"_

"_No!__" Gaul's smile widened. "But I say that Shae'en M'taal will _still_ find He Who Comes With the Dawn before _you_ do!"_

"_You will find only sand and Gleeman's tales! The honour of bringing the Chief of Chiefs to the Three-fold Land belongs to Sovin Nai!" Cohradin spat._

_Jahdi scowled and turned away from Tevin for a moment, the youth taking the opportunity to escape further down the log. __"_And_ Far Dareis Mai!" she snapped._

The mood around the fire had eased somewhat and at dawn they had parted company with the two Shaarad Aiel on friendlier terms than they had met. Manda and Sarien particularly. Also, if Gaul found the _Car'a'carn_ before _he_ did, Cohradin would have to give the fellow a fine ivory carving of a Sharan _tor-toise_. That would not happen, though. Cohradin fully intended to win his wager. As well as the heavy golden ring, set with an amethyst, that Gaul's uncle had taken from a Cairheinin jewellery emporium as part of his fifth. _He_ would find the Chief of Chiefs first!

Cohradin grinned savagely, his lip twisting. Tevin glanced at him, a lump of apple (his _third_ apple, Cohradin did not seem to want another so he had decided to eat them all himself) bulging his cheek, but when the older Knife Hand did not communicate anything, the youth shrugged and resumed chewing. Cohradin had a rather alarming face, he considered, _especially_ when he grinned like that, but he was a man of great honour, with a fine sense of humour, even so… there was much that he could learn from Cohradin. If he was not woken from the Dream first…

Cohradin did not notice Tevin's momentary concern. He was thinking about how he would win his wager, how they would find the _Car'a'carn_ first – by following the Aes Sedai and her Gaidin up into these mountains that stabbed the ocean! He could see the peaks, from where he sat, rising jaggedly in the west.

Was it a coincidence that after he had told her of He Who Comes With the Dawn, the Aes Sedai had begun to look into her crystal ball each night? No! Clearly, the Aes Sedai was about the same quest as he, and did not want him to know of it – why else did she use her '_tri'rangreal_' (Gerom _thought_ that was what it was called, but he was not sure) to divine the location of the Chief of Chiefs? Aes Sedai were wise indeed, they saw much! The White Tower must wish He Who Comes With the Dawn to lead _them_ in the Final Dance also – but _not_ if Cohradin found him first! To find the _Car'a'carn_, they had but to keep following the Aes Sedai. He was convinced of this.

Cohradin would _not_ let the Aes Sedai have the Chief of Chiefs when she found him. He was not sure how this was to be accomplished, though he had noted that the second time he had suggested that the Aes Sedai destroy him, she _had_ seemed a little tempted… perhaps she would take his life in exchange and the others could take He Who Comes With the Dawn back to Wet Sands Hold? Or perhaps she would even let him dance the spears with her Gaidin? Now, _that_ would be a duel worth fighting!

If it turned out that Cohradin was wrong, if the Aes Sedai searched for something _else_, then he would have _toh_ to the others. He had given them assurance that by following the Aes Sedai, they would at least find _something_, so _ji'e'toh_ would perhaps demand that he let them all beat him with sticks awhile? Cohradin did not care. Pain was only pain, after all. Then, he supposed that they would all have to go south and look for the foolish metal tower instead…

Regardless of the search for the Car'a'carn, Cohradin thought that he would like to speak to the Aes Sedai again (though he found her unnerving) if only to ask about the pictures in the sky that had appeared above the place where the Saldaeans fought each other. They did not dance the spears badly, those horse-men from the big flatlands below the Blight, though he supposed it was more a case of 'riding the lances.' It could not be easy to use a spear from atop one of those galloping creatures!

Their leader in particular had been impressive for so small a man, he must have slain dozens of the Dragonsworns! Again, Cohradin found himself wondering how the little Borderman had obtained the enormous feather he wore in his hat – had he been all the way to Shara and hunted the _ostrich_-bird himself? Cohradin had tried to hunt an _ostrich_-bird once, trespassing into forbidden territory to do so, but it had pecked him and run away and there had been no chance to pursue – some Sharamen with one of their fearsome tattoo-faced Wise Ones had appeared, and he had fled back to the Three-fold Land ahead of numerous arrows and balls of fire, _without_ his feathers!

But that had been when Cohradin was young and irresponsible, prior to acquiring maturity and good sense, the year _before_ he convinced Gerom and Chassin and the others to go north with him to hunt the Dark One... though of course, the others had not returned... there had been a great many more Neverborn and Shadow-twisted up there than they had expected, and they never did find Sightblinder, though they _did_ find something else of interest that one wouldn't think to discover so near to the Blight - a Gleeman!

It was strange that these Bordermen would dance the blades with each other simply because one group believed a man to be the Dragon and the other did not! The Shaido had even briefly taken part in that strange wetlander dance, though uninvited, since several of the Dragonsworns had mistaken the Aiel for their foe, their spears making them appear as some of these 'lancers' who had lost their horses, he supposed. In any case, the Shaido had been foolishly attacked. It was whilst killing the last of the Dragonsworns that Cohradin had first noticed the combatants, towering in the sky over his head. The tall young man with the sword, who fought the man in the dark cloak. And won. The red-headed fellow had not looked much like a wetlander… he had looked more like an Aiel, Cohradin thought. But of course, he could not be. No Aiel would ever use a sword! He would ask the Aes Sedai about it if the opportunity arose, but probably it was not important. Doubtless such visions occurred often on this side of the Dragonwall. Perhaps moving pictures up in the sky were considered a form of entertainment amongst the wetlanders?

* * *

The mountain-range was narrower here, near to the edge of World's End, the deep blue of the Aryth Ocean visible between the peaks on both sides… and the Shadowspawn were still close on their trail, the ugly howl of Trolloc horns echoing from the crags behind.

Ellyth dug in her heels and Eradore scrambled up the end of the narrow valley, dislodged stones tumbling down, the mare close to foundering. It was no use, it was too steep, she would have to dismount. Ellyth slid down from the saddle, pulling Eradore behind her by the reins. She was close to foundering herself, sweat running down her face, each breath coming with difficulty. Another horn, closer. How had it all become so desperate, so quickly?

There could be little doubt anymore that their erstwhile guide had been a Darkfriend. First, his signalling with a mirror, then the ravens, and finally… Ellyth paused a moment, panting, looking up, a hand shading her eyes. It was still up there… the final link in a chain of events that had taken them from a leisurely search to a desperate flight from danger, a fight for survival.

The Draghkar circled slowly, high above, watching her. They were stupid creatures, but even it knew better than to come any closer… not after what had happened to its brethren. Though it did not know that she was now so drained by the exertions of the last days that she could no more have lit a candle, than killed it with a fireball. How many days had it been since the first attack? Two? No… three.

Ellyth continued up the slope, walking backwards, each step an effort, pulling at her unwilling, exhausted mare while gazing back down, searching for Atual. She could sense him returning… and could feel that he had been injured again. There was a dull throb in her side – that was where he had taken the wound. Healing him last time had weakened her badly, she did not know if she would have the strength to do so again. But she would find it, from somewhere deep within, even if it killed her.

Mazrim Taim had been right – those who went up into the peaks seldom returned. Was Taim a Darkfriend also? Or had he not known of Bartok's allegiance to the Shadow? Not that it even mattered now… But in their case, it was less a matter of dangerous relics of the Age of Legends spelling their doom, more a question of how much longer they could continue to outrun the Trolloc Fists spread out behind them. Their pursuers did not have to spread out very far, World's End was barely a few miles wide here – and they were in the one place where they could expect no help. Not even the wilds of Arafel had been as isolated and uninhabited. Though since they were less than a day's travel from the end of the peaks and the ocean itself, they might well run out of land before the Shadowspawn finally caught them.

The first harbinger of their doom had come with the Draghkar. Six of the creatures had descended on their camp in the middle of the night. But Ellyth was no fool, and setting a warding each evening was second nature to her. The wards she had been taught in the Tower had been of Spirit only, designed to give the alarm should Shadowspawn cross them. Ellyth had always thought this insufficient. Her own warding, while containing Spirit, was primarily one of Fire. Being awoken by screeching Draghkar, as each had exploded in flames, was unpleasant. But it was better than not waking at all.

In that first day, they had destroyed an entire Trolloc Fist and the Myrddraal who lead them, in a desperate running battle down a long, narrow valley. The last Trolloc, terribly burned but still alive, had raised a horn to its goatish mouth and blown a single loud blast, before Atual's blade had sliced through its neck. And more horns had answered, from all sides. How could there be so _many_, so suddenly? Where had the Shadowspawn all come from?

Ellyth abruptly realised that there was no more gradient behind her, she had come to the end of the slope, finally. She dropped Eradore's reins and the mare lowered her head, standing still, breathing loudly. Still no sign of Atual down there. Ellyth frowned, worried. He had taken a thick Trolloc arrow in the thigh on the second day, when they were ambushed. Cutting the cruel, barbed head out had caused more damage, and it had taken every ounce of strength she had left to Heal him. Was he wounded worse now? She could not tell… Black spots danced in front of her eyes and the Bond was just a distant bundle of sensations in the back of her mind. Leaning against Eradore's heaving flanks, Ellyth turned, looking west. And saw what she had been hoping for.

A large, wide valley stretched out below, a scattering of peaks beyond, the Aryth Ocean beyond that… but it was the broken crag at the end of the valley that held he attention, twin rock spurs rising horn-like to either side. A sense of recognition gripped her. She had never been here before… and yet, she _had_.

Ellyth dug the Crystal out of her belt-pouch. Her first attempt to hold _saidar_ failed, but she persevered, managing to channel the thinnest of Spirit flows into the _ter'angreal_. The crimson light flickered so fast as to seem almost steady. The direction indicated lay directly between the horns of the broken crag. Ellyth had always thought that the moment of finally reaching her destination would be one of elation. But after the last few days, she just felt tired, and afraid. Afraid for herself, afraid for her Warder. He was coming now, she could sense him.

Ellyth turned – and Atual appeared, galloping Caba from the stand of twisted trees below. He was not alone. A dozen Trolloc scouts ran at his mount's heels, curved swords and spiked axes raised. One drew alongside, lunging for the rider in the saddle. Without slowing, Atual killed it, his blade sweeping up in a long arc, black blood spurting from the creature's throat. He galloped on, stretching his lead. Two scouts drew ahead of the others – one came in close, and lost its head to the ancient, power-wrought blade as Atual reined-in, turning Caba in a tight circle. The other Trolloc leapt forward as Atual raised his blade again, but Caba beat him to it. The big war-horse lunged his long neck out, teeth tearing and biting, and the howling Trolloc fell to its knees, clutching at its face, before Atual's sword split its skull. He pounded in his heels, drawing the enemy out behind him again, before turning to kill two more. By the time Caba reached the slope and began to labour up it, a dozen dead Trollocs lay at intervals in Atual's wake. The horn blared again, closer.

Halfway up the slope Atual was forced to dismount also, but he covered the remaining distance much faster than she had, tugging Caba by the reins. Ellyth glanced up while she waited. The Draghkar was gone now… no doubt, reporting to its masters. Though there was little enough to report. They were trapped, that was all it would have to say. As if its Myrddraal did not know already. Here was her Warder... Atual's grey coat hung open, his shirt stuck to his side with dark blood… Ellyth reached for it but he pushed her hands away gently.

"Atual! Let me look at it!"

"It is but a scratch, Mistress…"

"It does not _look_ like a scratch!"

She tried again, grabbing for his shirt, but Atual slipped away from her. This was ridiculous. His voice was patient.

"When you Healed me of the arrow wound, you fainted, Mistress."

It was true – she had woken, slung over Caba like a sack of oats, Atual leading the horses up a steep ravine, his blade drawn. And limping. She was not Cadsuane.

"I was tired, overwrought, it does not mean that I cannot-"

"Mistress, you told me that what we seek, you saw it, deep beneath the ground?" Atual was breathing deep with exertion as he spoke, leaning on Caba who looked as weary, but his grey eyes were clear and steady.

Ellyth blushed. She _still _could not believe that she had shared some of what had happened in her Testing with her Warder! But in the private dining-room of Seleisin's only Inn, her relief at finally being free of Cadsuane, along with pride at having assisted in the capture of a False Dragon, had occasioned something of a celebratory mood – and Ellyth had _four_ glasses of wine instead of her usual one, her tongue wagging more than it should have. In fact, it might have been as many as _five_ glasses… she did not really remember… Atual had had to carry her up the stairs to bed, in any case. She had been softly singing a romantic ballad that she had liked as a girl, Ellyth recalled with embarrassment. And as Atual had laid her gently down on her bed, she seemed to remember that she had tried to kiss him! It was associating with Rashiel that was to blame, no doubt…

The next morning, Atual had been his usual stern self when she asked him if he remembered anything untoward from the previous night. He had gravely replied that he did not. But she had felt a swift flash of amusement through the Bond.

"You may need to move earth and stone to get to the weapon," Atual was saying, "you will need your strength, Mistress."

As though that were settled, Atual turned, pulling Caba down the slope toward the low, flat valley. Ellyth was left with little choice but to follow. The Trolloc horn howled somewhere behind them. The young Aes Sedai caught up to her Warder on the valley floor, the cracked terrain stretching out to the broken crag on the other side. The surface beneath their feet seemed smoother than it should, traces of some ancient roadway showing in places. The horn-like spurs rose into the sky. Atual lowered his new spyglass, the expensive one that Ellyth had ordered from Master Tovere, to replace the other he had lost. That had been at the _stedding_, where they found the Crystal in the first place... hard to believe it had brought them to this.

"That must be the broken crag you spoke of, Mistress." Atual's voice was matter of fact. Ellyth blushed again. How much had she told him? The whole evening was rather… hazy. Her head had hurt terribly the following morning, and no Shrina in the next bed to give her Healing, even though she had helped the accursed girl with _her_ hangovers on more than one occasion! She would _never_ drink wine again. Ellyth winced. She supposed that one way or another, she would not… either by choice, or because the dead did not tend to drink anything.

"Yes, Atual… yes it is… I…"

Atual turned, looking back at her. He raised an eyebrow.

"I am sorry I brought you here, Atual Gaidin."

"Where you go, I go, Aes Sedai." Atual's level gaze indicated, as ever, that he had looked the Lord of the Grave in the eye more times than he could even remember, and had always known it was a staring contest that one day he would inevitably lose. "I am just sorry that you brought _yourself_ here, Mistress."

They mounted their exhausted horses and crossed the valley floor at a slow trot, which was about all the poor creatures could manage. Ellyth had channelled strength back into them twice, but doing so again (not that she could have) would have killed them. The twin spurs of the broken crag loomed steadily higher as they approached. Atual glanced back, listening attentively. "The horn has stopped," he muttered, "a bad sign. It means they're close enough to sniff our trail and don't want to give their position away…"

"If we can find this weapon in time, perhaps we can use it for our defence…" Ellyth did not know if she was trying to convince Atual, or herself.

"That's as may be, Mistress. It might not _all_ be bad news. I neglected to tell you, but I found a pile of dead Myrddraal and Trollocs yesterday… Shadowspawn that _we_ didn't slay… it looked like they had mostly been killed with _spears_…"

Though several had looked as though they had been killed with bare hands, and some of them… Atual grimaced. He knew a Knife Hand's work when he saw it… he had seen plenty of that sort of thing when he had served with the Illianer Companions in the Aiel War. So it was that one-eyed Cohradin and his friends who had been following them all along! Aielmen! No _wonder_ they'd given him the slip!

_I'm just glad those __savages seem to be on _our_ side, this time! _

Atual eyed the Mistress, looking concerned and preoccupied, she did not seem to have caught the significance of the spears. He turned in the saddle, wincing a little as the deep wound in his side protested the movement. For a moment, there was silence, just the clopping hooves of the horses. Then, Atual chose to unburden himself of something. He began with a question;

"Do you remember the day you bonded me, Mistress?"

"Mmm? Atual, do you _really_ think this is the right time for-"

"There might not be another, Mistress!"

Ellyth blinked. She could count on the fingers of one hand the amount of times Atual Gaidin had _interrupted_ her! She sighed. "Yes. Yes I do remember."

"_I_ remember a skinny young girl in a Blue-fringed shawl marching up to me in the gardens and saying 'I need you!' " Atual threw back his head and laughed, genuinely amused. Ellyth glared at him. Was the man _drunk?_ Not that _she_ could really talk, after her behaviour, but _still_…

Atual grinned, wiping at his eyes a moment. When he turned to his outraged Aes Sedai, the smile was still on his face but he seemed… sad.

"Forgive me Mistress, but you don't know the _whole_ jest… though I never did have much of a sense of humour, as you know!"

"Atual Gaidin, what is the-"

"Just a moment, Mistress…" Now she would have to use _both_ hands to count the interruptions! "What you _don't_ know is that only a moment before you walked up to me, I had decided to take my own life."

"Atual! I did not know!"

"Well, _that's_ why I'm telling you, Mistress. It was bad, after Milona Sedai… died. And I decided that I did not want to go on. If you had not come up to me in the gardens and bonded me on that day… well, I had already made up my mind what to do. I was going to go all the way up the main ramps, right to the top of the White Tower, right through the Amyrlin's study – I did not care if she was _in_ it at the time! – and throw myself off the balcony. I was going to draw my sword on the way down, too!"

Atual glanced at the ancient, power-wrought blade in the battered scabbard, patting the hilt. There was no heron-mark on it, though he had earned the title of Blademaster many times over. He had just never got around to putting one on there.

"They could have dug the blade out of the mess and given it to one of the younger lads, the fall wouldn't have damaged it… _nothing_ damages one of these."

Ellyth was staring. This was easily the _most_ she had ever heard her Warder say, at one time! Atual glanced at her. He smiled, affectionately.

"I'd heard about you, Mistress, just before Milona…" He did not finish the sentence, his face suddenly seeming haggard. "She was a good woman, was Milona Sedai… she always reminded me of my mother, you see… losing your dear mother once is bad enough, but…" He shook his head. "I had heard of you Mistress, from other Gaidin – I knew that you were going to go off to look for _ter'angreal_, _with_ your Horn-hunting friend but _without_ permission, even if when you came back to the Tower they spanked your little bottom until it was as blue as your Ajah!" Atual paused long enough to give Ellyth time to sniff disapprovingly, "and I _also_ happened to know that the world was a very bad place, full of Shadowspawn and Darkfriends and _worse_ than Darkfriends… so yes, you were right, Mistress, with what you said that day in the gardens… you _did_ need me."

"Of course I did! And I still _do!_"

"But my point, Mistress, is that _I_ needed _you_ too!" Atual shrugged. "Whatever happens… I just wanted you to know that you haven't _taken_ anything from me by bringing me out here… you _gave_ me another five years that I'd not have lived otherwise… and they have mostly been a good five years, too."

"Well… apart from Haddon Mirk..."

"Even _that_ had its moments… do you remember the card-game?"

"Do _not _remind me!"

"Shrinalla Sedai! Why, if you only knew what some of the Sisters have to say about _her!_" Atual laughed. "They think we Warders are just stony-faced bodyguards, keeping one eye out for danger and the other on our Aes Sedai – and we _are_, to be fair. But we listen, we make our own judgements, share them with other Gaidin…"

"_Gossiping_, you mean!" _Men!_

"If you like, Mistress. But we see what is happening, and we don't like it. The Tower half-empty, emptier than it's ever been, with the Last Battle on the way, barely a thousand Sisters left and quite a few of them, particularly the younger ones… well… 'not worth the price of a tallow candle!' "

"As I am sure your dear mother used to say. I _do_ hope that you are speaking of the _Red_ Ajah there, Atual Gaidin!"

"Mostly, Mistress, mostly. But there _are_ exceptions, the kind of Sisters who a man can be proud to serve… and in that I include _you_, Mistress, as well as Shrinalla Sedai (with her _sword!_) and Renn Sedai, with her secret Sea Folk husb-"

Atual did something that Ellyth had never seen him do before. He blushed.

"Sorry Mistress, I misspoke."

"Her _husband?_" _Now_ it all made sense! "Renn has _never_ finished a sentence of her own accord in her _life_, but whenever she talks about Jabal Gaidin, she is _always_ running out of words and blushing!"

"Well, Mistress… now you know why. Does _this_ count as gossiping?"

"_Yes!_"

"And Jabal swore me to secrecy… he'll kill me, if the Myrddraal don't first!"

"She bloody _married_ him and did not tell _me!_ Oh… _Renn!_"

"Well… here we are, Mistress…"

The broken crag loomed over their heads, beneath it a steep ravine opened up, leading downwards. They dismounted, letting the reins fall. Atual swept his grey eyes over the terrain, the narrow entrance to the ravine. "A good hold-point," he muttered. Ellyth clearly did not know what a hold-point was. Atual did not elaborate.

"The closest Fist is right behind us, Mistress. I got a good look at them, and killed one of the Lurks, though the cursed thing managed to scratch me…"

Ellyth's eyes widened. Her Warder was wounded with a Thakan'dar-forged blade! Atual winced, if he had not been so tired, he would never have let that slip.

"Take off your shirt, Atual. Let me see the wound."

"The Shadowspawn will be here soon, Mistress."

"Take off your shirt, now!"

Atual shook his head, firmly. "Take off your _cloak_, Mistress."

Ellyth was so surprised by this that the pale garment was half off her shoulders before she hesitated. Atual nodded firmly. She raised her eyebrows, but did as she was told. A wise Aes Sedai knew there were times when it was best to let the Gaidin make the decisions, and this was definitely one of them. Atual removed his own cloak and gently draped it over her shoulders. She gazed up at him in confusion, spoke absently;

"My shawl is somewhere in the saddlebags, Atual, I doubt it would suit you but it seems only fair to… to give you something… in return…"

Ellyth's voice faltered towards the end and Atual's level gaze said that this was no time for irony. But he relented, a small smile on his lips.

"I thank you Mistress, I would be honoured to wear the shawl of your Ajah." He tugged the fancloth straight. "In case you must needs avoid the eyes of the Shadow…" he explained. "This cloak has always served me well, in that regard."

Ellyth nodded, and started down the steep ravine. Atual did not follow. He turned, gazing out across the valley. Waiting.

"Atual?" When she realised that her Warder was not behind her, Ellyth turned back, staring. "Atual, come-on!" Though she had somehow known what he intended when he gave her his cloak… Atual spoke without looking at her.

"Go, Mistress. Find the weapon. I will wait here, until you return."

"Curse-you, Gaidin! Obey your Aes Sedai! _Follow!_"

Atual turned his head, a rare, wintry smile twisting his lips.

"_That_ won't work, Mistress. Not this time." Atual raised his voice, roughly. "We came a long way for this… so find it! Go, now! You are wasting time!"

The young Blue Sister stared at her Warder for a long moment, then scrambled back up the slope. Atual tensed as she threw herself at him, wondering if he was to be physically assaulted for his disobedience – but slim arms wrapped themselves tightly about his shoulders and Ellyth's chestnut locks brushed his chin as she pressed her face to his broad chest. He raised his powerful arms to reciprocate, taking care not to squeeze her slender frame too hard. For a long moment, Aes Sedai and Gaidin held each other in wordless farewell. Then, Ellyth turned away, scrubbing at her eyes, and started back down the ravine. Atual watched until she had quite disappeared from sight, though the sound of her sobs continued to echo back to him for a time.

When he had seen the ravine beneath the broken crag, Atual's course had become clear. The pursuing Fist would find the dead scouts, they probably had by now. They would follow their prey's trail over the slope and down into the valley, down into the ravine, where they would catch them and they would kill them. They would kill him, and then they would kill the Mistress. If she was lucky. They would both be dead, and it would have all been for nothing. The Mistress needed time, to find this Age of Legends weapon… perhaps she could use it to save herself. He certainly hoped so. He would give her that time. Only one enemy at once could enter the ravine. His course was clear. It was a good feeling… for the first time in days, Atual felt calm and at peace.

After hiding the saddlebags in a culvert, Atual approached Eradore. The graceful mare whickered softly as he stroked her nose, before removing saddle and bridle. A hard slap on the rump and the animal went racing away across the valley. Hopefully, the Trollocs would not catch her. Caba snorted, pushing his head against Atual's arm. He wished his saddle removed also. Atual shook his head.

"Sorry, Horse, but I'm going to need all the help I can get." He swung up onto Caba's back, drew his sword, resting it on his shoulder, curved sharp edge uppermost. The Warder sat his silent war-horse, standing stock-still before the entrance to the ravine. Blocking the way. Immoveable.

Though Atual had joined the Illianer Companions as a lowly trooper, the business with the Whitecloaks (he had never told the Mistress about _that!_) had created a lot of empty positions to be filled. Consequently, the first rank of any significance he achieved, through a combination of merit and staying alive, was Bannerman, bearing the green and white standard of First Captain al'Thor when they marched east to the Aiel War. As such, he felt a kinship with a famous Bannerman who, long before the Trolloc Wars, had done something much like what he now intended. The standard _that_ ancient Bannerman had borne depicted a pure, white sixteen-pointed star, emblazoned on a black field of shadows, which seemed to flee before it.

Though even as a boy, one of Atual's favourite tales had been that of Tarwin, who was said to have single-handedly held a narrow mountain pass against a Shadowspawn army for three days and three nights, while the villages to the south were evacuated to Mafal Dadaranell. Three days was a long time and Atual did not think he could quite manage _that_, but he would do his best. Then again, the stories _did_ tend to exaggerate… Of course, Tarwin, Bannerman to Raolin Darksbane, Scourge of the Shadow, died at the end of _his_ tale. Heroes always did.

* * *

Her vision still blurred with tears, Ellyth gazed at the pile of boulders in front of her. Some ancient rock-fall had blocked the end of the ravine. In her Testing, it had been here that the silver archway had appeared and she had stepped through, back into the chamber deep beneath the island of Tar Valon... perhaps that meant that there was a portal of some kind in the same place that she might pass through? She examined closer. It was just a rough, unrelieved rock face… except… what was that, down there? A crack between ancient boulders, long since melded together by wind and water and the passage of time. Something shone whitely back there. Something that was not mere granite.

Ellyth took several steps back and opened herself to the Source, filling herself with as much _saidar_ as she could hold, which in her present condition, did not amount to very much… she combined Earth and Air into a weave that Renn, strong in both, had taught her. She extended it into the rock face as far as she could, then _flexed_. The uneven rock-face bulged outwards, then shattered. A cascade of rubble spilled down, Ellyth stumbled back, her head spinning from the effort of channelling at the very limit of her strength, a thick cloud of rock-dust making her cough. She waved her hands, trying to see what she had uncovered through the thick haze that hung in the still air. There, beneath the layer of boulders, a stretch of smooth, white wall, unbroken and unmarred by the fall of hundreds of tons of stone, by the passage of the ages… which could only mean… Ellyth stepped closer, running her hand over the smooth, hard whiteness. There could be no doubt – it was _cuendillar_. An entire wall, perhaps an entire _building_, made entirely out of heartstone! It defied belief.

At one end, a drift of rubble seemed to extend inwards, beyond the wall. There was definitely some kind of portal set in this unrelieved, unbreakable material. Ellyth investigated further. There was a chink that she could fit her arm through, a hint of dank staleness in the air… but no way in, as yet. It was no good, she would have to move the rubble. She was going to have to channel again. Ellyth's head was pounding, her vision blurred, her ability strained to the limit… but she was so _close!_

This time, the Source did not come at all easily, but she persevered, slowly filling herself with as much _saidar_ as she could safely hold, then more than was safe, then more even than that… Ellyth took a deep breath, formed her weaves and struck at the cascade of rubble blocking the portal. She was aware of stones exploding aside and then the ground swept up to meet her. All went dark for a time.

* * *

Cohradin pulled his spear from the Myrddraal's chest, leaving a wound that matched several others spread evenly over its body, and it finally lay still, but for the occasional twitch. He had toyed with the creature for a while, drumming his spear loudly against bull-hide buckler whilst insulting it in the most amusing terms he could think of, occasionally dodging or parrying its dark blade… but the way the Halfman had kept trying to circle around to his blind side had begun to irritate him – as if he would not _expect_ an enemy to do that! Did it believe him to be _stupid?_

"I may have but _one_ eye," Cohradin had shouted, as he put his spearhead through the Myrddraal's pale throat, prior to setting-about killing it in earnest, "but that is still one more than _you_ have, Eyeless!"

Cohradin lowered his veil and turned to see Tevin drawing his knife across the throat of the last Shadow-twisted. Tevin stood and quickly lowered his own torn veil, revealing that he had a deep slash on his cheek, blood running down to his jaw. Cohradin strode over and peered at the wound, before nodding approvingly.

"There, young-one, you have your first scar. Now the Maidens will show you more respect – women _like_ a man with scars! The more scars, the more beautiful the man, in their eyes… who knows, perhaps one day you will be as beautiful as _me!_"

Tevin blinked. It was well to have his first scar, he felt pride that he had been blooded, perhaps the others would treat him better now. Or at least, a little better. But he did not know if he wished to be quite so beautiful as Cohradin…

Chassin and Gerom drifted out of the bushes to the north, unveiled, their spearheads dripping with dark Shadow-blood. They always made an odd contrast, walking side by side – Gerom was nearly twice the size of Chassin! Though Cohradin would not have liked to wager anything he valued on which of them was the more dangerous. Neither Knife Hand was as deadly as _him_, of course, but they came close enough. Gerom was limping a little, Cohradin noted. Though they _both_ looked rather dusty and bruised.

"I see you, Chassin," Cohradin called out, "I see you, Gerom – what is amiss with your leg, my friend?"

"I tried to seize the animal by its tail, but it kicked me," Gerom explained.

Cohradin considered this, but could discern little that made sense to him. He glanced at Chassin enquiringly.

"It was the… horse, of the Aes Sedai, the paler of the two animals," Chassin added, expanding on Gerom's rather cursory explanation, "we had just slain the last of the Shadow-twisted when it came running toward us. We attempted to halt it by standing in its path, but it would not stop. Stopping a wetlander horse is not like stopping a goat! It is more difficult."

"Much more difficult," agreed Gerom.

"It would seem, then, that the Aes Sedai has lost her horse," Cohradin opined.

"Perhaps she fell from off of it," Chassin suggested, "it does not look as though it would be easy to stay up there…"

Gerom shook his head slowly. "I do not think so. The horse did not have the… the thing on its back… the thing that horse-riding wetlanders sit upon…"

"The sandal?" wondered Chassin.

"That is a kind of a wetland shoe, Chassin."

"The _saddle_," Tevin told them, helpfully.

Gerom and Chassin regarded Tevin coolly, and were about to lambaste the youth for interrupting his elders, when they noticed his first scar.

"The boy has become a man!" shouted Chassin, exuberantly.

"This Knife Hand has seen his own blood!" bellowed Gerom.

Tevin struggled, but could not stop Chassin from roughly ruffling his hair, or Gerom from grabbing him and spinning him in a circle. "Stop! Put me down!"

"Chassin, can you backtrack the horse to where it came from?" Cohradin wanted to know, for some reason.

Chassin looked offended. "Chassin of the _Sovin Nai_ can track a goat up the side of a cliff!" he exclaimed, "you _know_ this, Cohradin – why, then, do you ask me if I can follow horse-tracks backwards across a valley?"

"I do not call question on your abilities, Chassin, but a horse is not a goat."

"No, it is not, for a goat does not wear great iron shoes that leave scrapes on rocks that I could follow at night with my eyes closed!"

Cohradin sighed. Why was it always the _short_ ones who were so fiery?

The Maidens of the Spear slipped noiselessly from the bushes to the south, their spearheads equally dark with blood. Two sets of fierce eyes (Manda's blue-grey, Jahdi's dark green) regarded the Knife Hands from above black veils.

"It seems _Far Dareis Mai_ have come to dance with _Sovin Nai_," Cohradin called out to them cheerfully, "as they are yet veiled!" The Maidens quickly lowered their veils and flushed angrily. Chassin and Tevin laughed raucously, shaking their spears, but Gerom just rubbed at his leg, frowning slightly. Gerom did not have much of a sense of humour, Cohradin considered, he was too serious-minded to laugh at jests. He had read too many books, that was the trouble... it made you overly-serious if you read too many books, Cohradin had heard.

"Go, Chassin, follow this wetland horse back to whence it came!"

The Maidens eyed each other. Jahdi's fingers flickered.

_w__hy does Cohradin want to backtrack a…_

There was no sign for 'horse' in Maiden hand-talk so Jahdi said, "horse."

Cohradin glanced at her curiously. Jahdi glowered. Manda signed back;

_w__hy does Cohradin want to do _any_ of the foolish things he does?_

Chassin lead the way importantly. "Very well, follow me. Over here is where the animal trod on us as it passed by..."

Chassin took the lead, Cohradin and the other Knife Hands following, which left the Maidens little option but to follow _them_. That was the way it should be, Cohradin considered. Maidens of the Spear should go last, not first. The Maidens did not agree, pushing past the Knife Hands rudely and taking the van, their eyes scanning the ground for tell-tale signs. Since every Shadowspawn within ear-shot was now dead, they conversed loudly while they did so…

"Chassin could not track a snake over sand," observed Jahdi, disinterestedly.

"He is too short to see the signs properly…" agreed Manda, sounding bored.

"Perhaps when the rest of us return to the Three-fold Land, he could stay?"

"Yes, the wetlanders are so small that Chassin will feel taller amongst them!"

Chassin scowled, but was experienced enough to know that if he responded, the loud observations would only redouble. If you ignored Maidens, they fell silent. Eventually. Besides, he was not shorter than _most_ Maidens, at least not by much, it was just that these two foolish girls happened to be unnaturally _tall_ for women… if indeed, Maidens of the Spear still _counted_ as women!

Cohradin followed-on, philosophically. Though he lead the Knife Hands and, supposedly, the Maidens, he was not some wetland Captain to be bowed-to and obeyed, more a sort of first-among-equals. He did not know why he was going to help the Aes Sedai and her Warder, other than that they fought bravely against the Spawn of the Shadow who had so recently begun to infest these mountains. The Shaido had been particularly impressed by the valley where a whole Fist of Trollocs and three of the Eyeless lay slaughtered. Though they had done a fair amount of their own slaughtering, in these past days.

Not that it would make much difference, more Shadow-wrought would just come out of the strange stone thing, the stone carved with leaves that lay beside an abandoned Hold of the Treebrothers. After the doors in it had opened, he had seen the long column of beast-faced warriors come marching out of it himself, though they had not seen him, naturally. It seemed that Sightblinder greatly wished the Aes Sedai dead, for some reason. This was, of course, another good reason to help her.

* * *

The distant clash of steel counterpointed by harsh cries echoed down the high walls of the ravine. Ellyth blinked her eyes, raised her head with difficulty. She felt… numb. Where was she? With her surroundings came memory, realisation. She struggled to her feet, head aching fiercely. The distant noises of battle penetrated her consciousness.

Ellyth turned, staring back up the ravine. She could go back up there, and die with her Warder. Perhaps she even should. That was all she would be able to do, die. She felt stretched, strained, knew with certainty that she had come within a hair of burning herself out. She would not be able to channel more than the thinnest trickle of _saidar_ for hours, days even. Besides, Atual would be angry with her if she went back up there – he would be _furious_ – but worse, he would be disappointed. He would have given his life for nothing. Though it felt harder even than taking those steps into the Testing _ter'angreal_ for the final time, Ellyth turned her back on the ravine. She could sense Atual, distantly, through the Bond. Her Warder felt strangely at peace.

More of the long, _cuendillar_ wall was uncovered now, a fan of scattered rubble stretching out from the base. It seemed to curve inwards as it rose, as though a dome lay buried in the cliff face. And her final, reckless weave had not been in vain. Half of an archway lay uncovered, a dark quarter-circle bounded by boulders and shattered stones. A way inside. It was in there. The weapon. It had to be.

Ellyth climbed over the rubble and ventured cautiously within. A large, bare chamber layered with ancient, undisturbed dust stretched out. A circular wall bounded the chamber, with crystalline semi-spheres set into it in places. A thick slab of marble stood opposite the arch, engraved with some ancient carving, worn and faded by the slow erosion of stone. It looked like a crouching lion… yet something about its _head_ was not quite right…

It was dark in here, gloomy… Ellyth attempted to embrace the Source, but it slipped away from her each time and the buzzing in her head increased. She did not know if she would have been able to channel enough to make the sphere of blue light in any case… but then, the crystals set in the smooth, white walls flickered to life and a dull glow filled the chamber.

Ellyth blinked. She did not know why these ancient illuminations had suddenly come alive, but she was grateful for it. There was nothing up here, but she could see a balustrade in the centre of the chamber, which proved to conceal a shallow, spiralling ramp, disappearing into the gloom. And the familiar itching sensation made itself felt through the buzzing. There was a _ter'angreal_ down there – a very old, very powerful one. Ellyth started down the ramp.

Ellyth was partway down when she felt Atual take a wound, a sharp pain in her arm that swiftly faded to match the distant throb in her side. She halted… she could go back… and do what? She could not even sense the Source, she was so drained. At least Shrina would have had her _sword_, but she did not even carry a belt-knife. Setting her shoulders, Ellyth continued down the ramp, staring straight ahead. She was halfway down when she felt Atual wounded again, and then again, two sharp pains in her chest. She continued down. At the bottom of the ramp, Ellyth felt her Warder die.

Ellyth fell to her knees, head bowed forward, tears coming in a torrent. She could have masked the Bond, but it would have felt like a betrayal. So, she made herself feel every bit of her Warder's death, before forcing herself back to her feet.

Another wide, dusty chamber, down here, though the walls were no longer heartstone. More of the semi-spheres of crystal flickered to life, but half seemed dead and the remainder fainter than those above. Ellyth looked up. The Shadowspawn would be coming for her soon, now that they were no longer held at bay. A pile of rubble beneath a broken arch blocked the entrance to what must be an antechamber. It was behind there, she could sense the _ter'angreal…_ yet somehow, something _more_ than a _ter'angreal_… grazing her hands, Ellyth began to pull at the jagged rocks and chunks of ancient masonry that blocked the way. After a while, she fell to her knees, on the verge of fainting again, looking up in desperation, blinking sweat out of her eyes. She had barely made any impact on the rubble that blocked her path. At this rate, it would take a week to get through… and she did not have that long. Yet it would be days before she could channel enough to even move a pebble. To have come this far, to have lost Atual, and be defeated by a small pile of stones! Ellyth would have sobbed with frustration if her grief had left her any tears.

Something shone dimly in the corner, catching her eye. A short, metallic length. It was the only thing left in the otherwise bare chamber. What was it? Ellyth went to retrieve it. The tubular object was much heavier than it looked. Ellyth cradled it in both hands, walking back towards the rubble-blocked room. Perhaps she could use it to lever the larger rocks out of the way? One of the pebbles she had dislodged turned beneath her boot and Ellyth stumbled. Her little finger slipped into a hole near the base and nudged against a round depression. And the metal thing bucked heavily in her hands, a searing bolt of light shooting from the far end, striking the rubble with a deafening roar.

Ellyth squealed with alarm, dropping the device to the floor with a loud clatter and backing away from it. Whatever it was, it was dangerous… her wrist ached fiercely, she supposed that she had been holding it wrongly. And there was a trickle of wetness on her cheek… she raised a trembling hand to the small, deep cut, no doubt caused by a flying chip of… Ellyth's dark, liquid eyes moved to the antechamber. The rubble was gone, mostly blasted to powder in an instant.

The way lay open!

Something large almost filled the antechamber, a long, rectangular box of white, gleaming _cuendillar_. It was unrelieved and smooth, but for the end nearest her, which contained a round aperture, with sixteen corresponding facets. Ellyth took the Crystal out of her belt-pouch for the last time. She yielded utterly to the Source, the buzzing in her head increasing to a sick, searing pain, and was finally rewarded with a tiny amount of _saidar_. She channelled the thinnest trickle of Spirit, all she could manage, into the _ter'angreal_. It came to life. The crimson light was steady now, glowing in the exact centre of the Crystal… and an answering glow came from the Box _ter'angreal_, from the centre of the aperture.

Ellyth took a deep breath, and inserted the Crystal into the place so evidently meant for it. It fit smoothly, and stayed there when she took her hand away. A loud chime seemed to sound from somewhere - Ellyth jumped! - and a very bright flash of light seemed to pulse from deep within the Box. And then, nothing happened. Nothing at all.

Not knowing exactly what else she could do, Ellyth sank slowly to her knees, shuddering, and began to weep. She did not know how long she knelt there, head bowed, eyes squeezed tightly shut, waiting for the Shadow to come for her...

Another loud chime! And the entirety of the Box _ter'angreal_ began to glow with a pure white light, intensifying until she had to shield her eyes, leaning back on her heels, shoulders pressed against the wall. Gradually the light faded, replaced by a slow, rhythmic pulse, a deep, throbbing sound that was reminiscent of a heart beating. Rising, examining the Box, Ellyth noted that the Crystal had somehow fused with it, the smaller _ter'angreal_ now seeming to be part of the larger, as though they had never been separate entities.

A loud cracking sound! Ellyth gasped with shock, retreating back to the wall. The top surface of the box, where one might expect there to be a lid, had split in two, right the way along its length – but it was _cuendillar!_ That was impossible, was it not? But it had happened. The rhythmic pulsing slowly faded away, the long split at the top of the Box _ter'angreal_ gradually widening, the heartstone melting away. Ellyth squinted from her place by the wall, but could see nothing in the low light of the gloomy antechamber… perhaps a hint of movement in there? She did not wish to approach the box too readily, for now that it was finally opening, she found herself wary and uncertain as to what exactly lay inside. A weapon? A man? A man who _was_ a weapon? The final traces of the _cuendillar_ lid melted away.

The Box was open.


	7. 6: Through the Paerish Swar

_**Gleeman Bob writes: **sorry it has taken so long! _Chapter 5: At World's End_ got rather grim towards the end and the Will of the Pattern forced me to kill-off poor Atual Gaidin which I still feel bad about so _Chapter 6: Through the Paerish Swar_ is intended to be a bit more light-hearted. (except for the middle part, which is all nasty and Darkfriendy.) I hope that you will appreciate the light-heartedness in the spirit in which it is intended, for I am but a foolish, fun-loving Gleeman and prefer to laugh than to weep! thanks again everyone who has been good enough to read (and even review!) my humble efforts. I promise to post _Chapter 7: Under the Hill_ before this coming Winternight, I swear it upon the Light and my hope of Rebirth, and on Santa's beard also! _

_as ever, I wish to extend the greatest of respect and admiration to the legacy of Mr Rigney jnr._

_Walk in the Light!_

* * *

A Hunter for the Horn he was, impressive to behold

Impressive as the Horn itself (they say it's made of gold)

But he only went Horn-Hunting as his wife was such a scold!

Raise a cheer for the Horn of Valere!

**from "The Horn-Hunting Song" by Roth Blucha, Gleeman**

* * *

**Chapter 6 * Through the Paerish Swar**

Aebel Gaidin and Blaek Gaidin, twin-brothers bonded in sword-service to Shrinalla Tolamani, Aes Sedai of the Green Ajah, rode slowly and miserably west across Almoth Plain, hunched in the saddle, their dark, long-lashed eyes fixed nervously on their Aes Sedai, just ahead of them. Riding at the fore. Leading their small party. Shrina _always_ did that! Rode ahead of them, as though it was _her_ duty to take the first arrow in an ambush and not _theirs_. It was not fair! But it would be unwise to point-out her foolishness. Her selfishness! Today, of all days, this would _not_ be a wise thing to do.

Even though the twin Warders could only see Shrina's back, swathed in the green damask cloak embroidered with curling golden horns that she had acquired several months earlier in Illian, her long red tresses spilling wildly over her shoulders as they always did, her graceful carriage as she sat her gelding, walking smoothly down the merchant's wagon-road of hard-packed earth… even had they not felt her mood through the bond (and how they wished that they could not!) the Twins would have known that their Aes Sedai was furious. No, that was far too mild a word. There did not exist a word to describe the mood Shrina was currently in – and this was _Shrinalla Sedai_ – her bad moods were of legendary proportions. Though the kissing and making-up that always followed on from them, after the customary three days of cold silences and challenging glares on her part combined with the cringing, puppy-like behaviour they were required to exhibit on theirs, always made up for it. Certainly made up for it!

Although the Twins had not really known many women before they met Shrina, at least not in _that_ way, they both agreed that there was no-one quite like her. Life had certainly become less dull after the wild young Battle Ajah Sister had come into their lives, taken them into her bed and, the following morning, peremptorily informed them that they were to be her Warders.

Oh dear. The Twins swallowed nervously. Shrina had abruptly reined A'vron to a halt. Was she going to shout at them again? And throw things? The Twins reined-in likewise, sitting Mosk and Merk, waiting cautiously. And the newcomer to their party (met that very morning) followed-suit, his dark blue eyes still slightly wide at some of the things he had recently witnessed, though his gaze was more curious than a-feared. Still a fair amount of fear, though… an angry Aes Sedai could have that effect on anyone, no matter what other awe-inspiring spectacles they might have recently witnessed, and _he_ had seen… well, they all knew what he had seen. What he had _seen_ was the problem, after all.

Shrina sat there awhile, staring straight ahead across the flat, wind-swept plain that stretched out before them – the Twins could almost imagine they saw a dark, miniature storm cloud hovering right over her russet head, tiny forks of the lightning that she wielded so adeptly stabbing down into her snaky, fox-hued locks! Lightning… no, they did not want to think about lightning… not after what she did to that _tree_…

The Twins were aware that Shrina was extremely upset and since they also knew why, they knew that she had a perfect right to be – she had been hunting for it since the age of three, after all! But even so… it was a shame about the oak.

It had taken the Twins ages to find the Darkfriend who murdered their father, but at least they got her in the end – how would they have felt if they had just been about to stick their blades into the evil Tairen witch (sorry Aes Sedai, we don't mean _you_, just some Shadow-loving Wilder in a swamp years ago!) and Atual Gaidin had jumped in front of them and killed their father's murderer instead of them? Which he nearly had, by the way, you had to be fast if you wanted to kill Darkfriends when Ellythia Sedai's Warder was around! Fortunately, Atual had remembered about their dead father in time, so he stood aside and let them do it, even though they could tell that he didn't really want to. Very generous of him, really, so later the Twins had asked Shrina if they could have some of their coin back (though by that point she had already lost most of it at cards) and bought Atual a new hair-clip as a thank-you gift.

Atual Gaidin did not trouble to say thank-you for the gift and never wore it, probably didn't like it (it was much cheaper and plainer than the nice ones Ellythia Sedai gave to him on his Namedays) but it was not _their_ fault that Shrina had only been able to give them back three silver marks and some coppers! Shrina was terrible at cards, dice as well, she should not play, _especially_ with her Warder's coin… but there was that line in the False Dragon's Prophecy about a 'gambler' sounding the Horn of Valere, so Shrina thought that if she wagered a lot, she would be more likely to find it! The Twins disapproved of their Aes Sedai participating in games of chance, but… what could they do? She wore the Shawl, not they!

Still, Atual must have liked the thought of the gift, because even though Shrina had only bonded them the week before and it was customary for a senior Gaidin to keep taunting newly-bonded Warders with fresh-fish names for at least a month, he turned his back on tradition (which he did not do very often) and promptly ceased calling them 'new-caught fish' or 'fresh Mayene fishies' or 'little Green Ajah fishes in the net.' He still called them 'oilfishers' though, but the Twins did not mind that so much as they were from Mayene after all, whose natives were often named this by those of other lands… except for the vile land of Tear, where they were instead usually referred to as 'Mayener scum' (which did not have quite the same ring to it.)

People from Mayene were dubbed 'oilfisher' even if they did not work in the Oilfishing trade. But as boys, Aebel and Blaek had once (like their father and his forefathers before him) sailed to where the oilfish shoals lay, far to the distant south where even the Sea Folk did not go. So technically, they _were_ 'oilfishers.' They knew where the shoals were, after all, and had sworn the ancient oaths never to tell where. They had the secret tattoo, did they not?

Jabal Gaidin had once told them how much it hurt when he had his hands tattooed as a boy, the deep ink-marks of his Clan and Family sigils scored into his skin, and the Twins had just sat there in the Inn and smiled without looking at each other, thinking about what they had endured – because they had once each had a small gold tattoo of an oilfish needled onto their gum! It had been a proud moment for the young brothers, induction into the Ancient and Honoured Order of Oilfishermen – but it had also been extremely painful.

Shrina was still sitting there, staring bleakly out across Almoth Plain, which was also rather bleak. The Twins hoped there would be no more lightning – how they wished Ellythia Sedai was here to tell Shrina not to do stupid things like that, since they were not allowed to! They would far rather Shrina hurl abuse and blunt objects some more, but _lightning_... however angry Shrina was, however justified that anger, it still did not give her the right to scorch branches off harmless oak trees – she might start a fire!

Shrina was _always_ channelling in public places, there might be more Whitecloaks about, or some of those 'Shornshan Monstermen' the foolish Gleeman had spoken of, the ones he claimed had come across the Aryth Ocean in giant tea-cups, carrying Artur Hawkwing's scowling head on a big silver plate – the _same_ ones who were said to have so recently infested Shrina's hometown. They had Aes Sedai as well, did they not? Though if one of those Shornshan Sisters came along and bothered Shrina right now, they would have almost felt sorry for the channelling monsterwoman, who was about to encounter Shrina on a bad day! A _very_ bad day…

Finally, Shrina moved, leaning forward, reaching for her saddlebag on the right, which bulged oddly. Aebel and Blaek suppressed the urge to groan – this must be the _third_ time Shrina had done this today, and it was not yet even noon! Shrina pushed back the flap and reached inside, grasping something. The Twins sighed, and rolled their eyes at each other.

"Stop rolling your bloody eyes at each other!" snapped Shrina, without turning around. She then pulled a large, curling huntsman's horn out of the saddlebag… it was definitely a _ter'angreal_ and even had 'the Grave is no Bar to my Call' engraved on it in the Old Tongue! But it was made out of the wrong kind of metal, unfortunately. And while something interesting had happened on both occasions that Shrina had sounded it, this had in no wise involved the dead Heroes who were bound to the Horn of Valere. These same Heroes were all somewhere up ahead in Falme, apparently, giving the Shornshan monsterfolk a good pummelling, and serve them right for not staying on their side of the Ocean! The Twins did not like what they had heard of these invaders, even if it was mostly exaggerated nonsense told by idiotic Gleemen… these Shornshans sounded as though they were almost as bad as Tairens.

"Flaming Sages of the flaming Ages…" Shrina muttered, venomously. She scowled down at the horn she held for a while, then drew back her arm!

"No, Shrina!"

"Stop, Shrina!"

Shrina hesitated for a long moment, caught on the verge of hurling the horn into a bush, trembling as she resisted the urge to cast it violently away from her… then, cursing vilely under her breath, she reluctantly lowered her arm and stuffed the huntsman's instrument back into the saddlebag. She folded her hands atop the pommel of her saddle and sniffed loudly. The Twins knew what – or rather _who_ – she was thinking about. They did their best to keep silent, to not attract Shrina's unwelcome ire with further ill-conceived attempts at cheering her up and trying to make her see the bright side of things. That had not worked. _That_ had nearly brought them an encounter with the lightnings themselves!

When nothing happened for a while, the fourth member of their small party heeled his horse a step forward. The Twins were aware of him but their eyes remained fixed on their Aes Sedai, as the fellow was no threat. Not to them, at least (which was odd, considering his derivation) for he had proved himself trustworthy.

"May I enquire as to what is happening?" the fair-haired young man whispered softly, his words clipped and precise… after a moment, when no response came, he added, slightly louder; "Shrinalla Sedai will perhaps destroy more trees now, yes?" He sounded almost… hopeful! He _was_ a strange fellow! The Twins turned to glare at him and he shrugged apologetically, conceding that it was currently best to keep quiet on that (or any other) subject. This did not reduce the Twins ire.

"Hush!" hushed Aebel.

"Shush!" shushed Blaek.

The Twin's dark eyes returned to their Aes Sedai… there was little in life that made them nervous, but a combination of the One Power and a furious female could do it every time… if little else, Warders had _this_ in common with all other men!

Eventually, Shrina spoke, calmly. Well, not _that_ calmly… but at least she was no longer shouting. For the time being. Her words echoed back to the three watching men, pregnant with foreboding, menace and… vengeance!

"Watcher's Oath, but if I _ever_ catch the skinny, bug-eyed, lanky, grinning, _gambling_ Andorman who _sneaked_ the Horn of Valere right out from under me," Shrina promised, darkly, "then I swear on the Eye over the Endless Waves that I am going to make that little thief _eat_ the burning thing!"

Shrina then did a graceful, wiggly thing with her fingers and used her first digit to draw an eye in the air above. That meant it was a _real_ Watcher's Oath, to be taken seriously. So, if the unlucky fellow from Andor did cross her path, then Oath Rod be cursed – Shrina would be honour-bound to attempt to force-feed him with the fabled Horn of Valere! Which she would very much enjoy doing…

Shrina was quite looking forward to their eventual meeting – eventual and inevitable – for, if she could no longer be a Hunter for the Horn (since as of earlier in the week, it had been successfully hunted and sounded, though not by her) then she would devote the rest of her life to being a Hunter for the Andorman instead! Though when she found him, she wasn't going to _sound_ him – she was going to _pound_ him!

Shrina smiled grimly at the thought of the sweet revenge she would one-day exact upon the 'Hornsneaker,' as she thought of him… she did not consider the Andoran thief to be a proper Hornsounder like her, since he had sneaked-off with _her_ rightful Horn, so earlier she and the Twins and the young Amadici fellow (who had initially given them the bad news) had between-them come-up with this clever name to describe him. She had needed to make-up a title for the grinning, gambling Andorman in any case, because even though she had been told that his name was Matrim Cauthon of the Two Rivers (wherever that was, it sounded horrid and dull) she could not yet bring herself to even speak the name of the… the _Hornsneaker!_

Shrina growled warningly, deep in her throat like an angered leopardess, her darkly exotic features shaping themselves into a grim mask of righteous vengeance for a moment, then tapped her booted heels. A'vron resumed his steady pace, Mosk and Merk followed suit, as did the tall roan gelding of their companion in misfortune… and the odd party's slow progress across Almoth Plain resumed.

As soon as he thought it was safe to, Aebel glanced at Blaek wordlessly, a swift, meaningful communication that hopefully Shrina would not notice through the bond. It was not _they_ she was angry with (for once) but that would not stop her from taking it out on them – it never had before! They really _were_ the unfairer sex! The glance, that only the other Twin could have possibly deciphered, meant something along the lines of:

_Well… at least we found _a_ Horn… even if it wasn't _the_ Horn…_

Considering that throughout the long history of the Great Hunts, most Hunters for the Horn had managed to find little more than their own deaths in some lonely place, finding a Horn was surely better than nothing? But try telling Shrina that… try telling her _anything_ at the moment, and get ready to dance with the lightning!

* * *

**Part I: Illian**

_"He is called Snowpelt… Ereklass Snowpelt! And he is a Hero. Also is he named 'He who Smites the Shadow…' and he is yet a Hero. He is Wan-of-the-Howling-Axe and, in the old-speech, 'Eldest Son' and by these names a Hero is he in addition! The Dragonmen call him 'Firstborn' and as well they name him 'Shadow-Slayer!' And of these names, he is equally a Hero… for a Hero may go many places and gain many a Name of Honour in the doing of many a Heroic Deed! A Hero often has many names, many names indeed… but it is by the name of 'Snowpelt' that _we_ shall know him…"_

_The Gleeman lowered his voice and hissed, in a loud, stagy whisper;_

_"For _convenience!_"_

_The Gleeman's audience shifted a little and blinked, then chuckled nervously and glanced at each other with perhaps a touch of disapproval. It wasn't usual for a Gleeman to intersperse his stories with jokey asides… it had been amusing, but they hoped he would not do it again. It was difficult to lose yourself in some ancient tale when it was being told by a sarcastic Gleeman! But the Gleeman did not do it again._

_Outside, a tall young woman tossed a copper to the dark-haired stable-boy who had taken the reins of her gelding. She squinted through the window… and smiled delightedly, recognising the story-telling Gleeman inside._

_"I might have known!" she exclaimed, and turned to her companions to share the tidings – but they were already leading their own horses around to the stableyard, scorning the services of the stable-hands in favour of their own. She shrugged, and moved toward the open door beneath the strange sign – a white-striped badger dancing on its hind legs beside a man brandishing a silver shovel – the unaccustomed heat along with the heady aroma of the Perfumed Quarter all but forgotten at the anticipation of a merry common-room, a cup of wine… and entertainment._

Inside, the Plainchant continued, moving inexorably toward a sad conclusion, as such tales always do… but a Hero never dies until the end of his story.

"The Shadowmen advance, blackening the slopes of the Mountain of Night, numberless beyond numbering, grim and awful to behold…" Roth Blucha, Gleeman, strummed low, menacing chords on his harp. "…their savage Beastmen swarm in their footsteps, countless beyond counting…" Brutal, jangling chords. "…their Batmen flock above, darkening the sky, blotting-out the pale and distant sun…" Deliberately discordant chords. "…and their Shadowdogs romp at their heels!"

Roth then used his trained Gleeman's voice to make some surprisingly realistic barking noises, and the audience clapped a bit. Roth was not above doing animal impersonations. There wasn't much that he was above doing if it meant that he did not have to pay for his room or board! Roth plucked a few dark and dissonant notes, whilst scowling fiercely – but then, they changed, to golden, triumphal scales…

"But Snowpelt cares not! Why, he stands upon his _own_ mountain, of a height to rival even that of the Night – a mount he has carved from Shadow-wrought, their bones piled high, torn and broken by his wrath! His eyes shine with the Light, too bright for the creatures of the Shadow to look upon, searing their dark and twisted souls. He raises his Howling-Axe high and whirls it over his head – and the Axe howls, howls for the blood of the Shadow!" Roth used his fingernails briskly, running them up and down the longer strings, producing a disconcerting noise.

The crowded common-room was firmly in Roth's hands – where a Gleeman's audience rightly _should_ be – and behind the bar even Nieda stood attending, a forgotten mug and polishing cloth in her hands… her watchful eyes distracted, the maids had stopped serving to stare also, and young Bili by the door had his mouth hanging open.

"The enchanted axe of four silver blades, it _howls_, loud enough to split the sky in twain! The footsteps of the enemy falter, the pale faces of the Shadowmen pale further, the Beastmen groan and cover their hairy ears with their hairier hands, the Batmen shriek and tumble from the sky, the curs of the Shadow whine and whimper and cower down upon the ground!

"But their King is watching, and no sufferer of cowards is _he_… so they come on, full half the host of the Shadow – for has not Snowpelt slain the _other_ half, and the day yet undone? On they come, encircling and surrounding him. An ordinary man might tremble at such a sight – but Snowpelt is no ordinary man! He carries the blood of the Fire-Giants in his veins, stands taller than the tallest man, higher than the highest Ogier… and the Light that shines from his eyes is terrible to behold! No, Snowpelt is no mere _man_ – for he is a Hero of the Light, born to war on the Shadow!

"The horde of the Night encompass the mountain of bones, an island of the Light in a sea of fell and fatal darkness. The Shadow-wrought stand still and fall silent… and gaze upon our Hero. Will he now quail and quiver at the sight of his own death? No! _Of course he will not!_

"For noble Ereklass, clad in the glowing white skin of the monstrous Ice-Bear that he slew as his first Great Task, the enchanted snowy pelt that gives him his name and protects him from harm – he looks down upon the host of the Shadow – and he laughs! He laughs loud and he laughs long!"

Roth's voice swelled into booming laughter for a moment, his harp jangling in accompaniment. By the door, Bili gaped a little wider, not noticing the young woman slipping past him any more than Roth did. The Gleeman's eyes were on his audience, holding them… he squinted alarmingly, his face assuming a mask of ferocity.

"Then Snowpelt narrows his terrible eyes, twin orbs that burn with the Light, and he raises his Howling-Axe high, so that a cold white flame shines from its silver blades and further blinds the dark-blinded Shadowmen! Contemptuously, he looks down upon the Shadow-wrought arrayed before him, countless beyond numbering, numberless beyond counting… and he _speaks_, in a voice that shakes the sky and trembles the earth…" (Roth raised and deepened his voice, words resounding in the narrow confines of the common-room) "…and he says;

" _'Not enough!_ Tell the dark King of Night to send _more!_ Tell your foul Lord of the Grave that I will fight _all_ of his minions… or I will fight _none_ of them!' "

Roth was giving them _Snowpelt_. Or, _The Heroic Death of Ereklass Snowpelt_, to give the tale its full title. There had been the usual requests, Rogosh Eagle-eye this, Gaidal & Birgitte that, but Roth Blucha, Gleeman, did not take requests, even when the Great Hunt itself had been called. If they did not like his story, then there were other Inns where he was sure there were older, fatter Gleemen who would be happy to recite for them whatever oft-told tale they pleased in return for the price of a cup of wine. But here, tonight, he was giving them _Snowpelt_… and they could like it or they could lump it!

Besides, Roth preferred to tell his audience a story they might not have heard before… and this certainly fit the bill. It was a strange tale, of unknown provenance, one of the lost stories that Old Willi, the Master Gleeman Roth stood 'prentice to, had found when he journeyed the Aiel Waste, a long time ago… It was confusing, also. The bear's skin, for example… clearly, the legend of Ereklass Snowpelt was based on that of a more ancient Hero of the First Age, the mythical 'Lionskin' who might or might not have been bound to the Horn, opinion on the matter was divided amongst Gleemen… and yet, it was known (if little else was, beyond the performance of a certain amount of trials) that Lionskin had used a great wooden club to defeat his enemies, not a four-bladed axe… and when had the skin of a lion become that of a bear? Were these Heroes one and the same? A single thread of the Pattern, spun-out in different Ages? Or had one taken the other's name, in emulation of his deeds? It was impossible to say… but it was thought the tale of Lionskin went back even further than that of Elsbet, the Queen of All, and there were not many stories older than _hers_.

But in spite of all this, there was only one criteria _The Death of Snowpelt_ needed to meet as far as any Gleeman was concerned – it made for a good story! Roth was coming to the conclusion now – Snowpelt's over-confidence had proved his undoing, as was often the case with Heroes, but his end had proved worthy of song and story… and so, the Gleeman was telling it! For that was what a Gleeman _did_.

"The Shadowmen gather about the dying Hero, though feign to face the Light that still shines from his terrible eyes – they will wait until he is no more, then they will tear off the great pelt of the Ice-Bear, the shining, white armour he wears beneath, and cast them away… they will despoil his carcass and leave it for the Beastmen and Shadowdogs to fight over!

"Ereklass Snowpelt closes his eyes and lies still – the Shadowmen smile their cold and mirthless smiles, and approach. There is his great Howling-Axe, still gripped in his lifeless hand – they will take it to their King as his dark tribute, the weapon of his greatest foe (but one!) the shining silver blades that will wound even the dread Shape-shifters of the Shadow, who stand immune to any ordinary weapon!

"The Shadowmen stand over the fallen Hero… but then, his eyes open! He is _not_ dead! And the Light that shines from them is terrifying indeed! His Howling-Axe sweeps in a circle over his head and the Shadowmen fall where they stand – just a scratch of its shining blades enough to kill them… but Snowpelt is no cat! Even in death, he does more than merely scratch his enemies! The remaining Shadowmen fall back, wary! And again, Snowpelt laughs at them!

" 'Not yet, Shadowmen!' his voice booms, potent even in death, 'soon… but not _that_ soon!' And though dying from the venomous blood of the Hounds of Darkness, Ereklass Snowpelt, Firstborn, laughs loudly! Of great humour is he!

"But even a Hero has his limits… and Snowpelt has reached his. His mighty arm falls, his Howling-Axe lies still, no more to rise… and the surviving Shadowmen return cautiously, eager to be about their grim task…"

The sailors and dock-workers who filled the common-room stirred a little. Roth knew that they did not wish to hear about Shadowmen despoiling the Hero's corpse and stealing his enchanted axe. Which was well, for they were not going to! It is a foolish Gleeman, who dissatisfies his audience…

"But lo? What is that distant noise that approaches? The Shadowmen feel no fear, any more than they know mercy or compassion… but at _this_ sound, they look blindly at each other with… trepidation!"

Roth made a keening noise in the back of his throat as he plucked strange dissonant chords, slowly making the sound louder, till it filled the common-room…

"As well they should! A screaming! A shrieking! Moving closer… coming nearer… and the Shadowmen blanch – for they _know_ what _that_ noise means! Well know they who is coming and they turn to stare, in something approaching horror!

"Who comes, to save Snowpelt's honour? Why, it is his brother, Taw! Aye, Taw-of-the-Screaming-Spear! He who Scourges the Shadow! Known to the Dragonmen as 'Shadowman-Slayer' – and with good reason!

"Yes, Snowpelt's younger brother, Taw! His Squire before battle, his Second during it, and on this occasion, his Saviour after! Though Taw cannot save Snowpelt's life, for the blood of the Shadowdog is fatal to all, even to Heroes… but he can, at least, preserve his Honour! Though told to hold back, he defies his elder brother's command – he disobeys! He comes!

"No giant's blood is Taw! He stands the height of a tall man only – but no ordinary man is he either… a Hero also! No ordinary man… and no ordinary steed rides Taw! Mounted on the back of a great wolf is he! The first Shadowman falls, for the Screaming-Spear never misses its target, though Taw has been blind from birth – a white scarf is tied about his brow, but what need has Taw for eyes? His ears can hear a pin drop from the other side of the Great Ocean!

"They say Snowpelt found him as an abandoned babe, raised and fostered him… and each time Taw casts his spear, a Shadowman dies. Weaponless is Taw now? No! For the Screaming-Spear _returns_ to his pale hand – he throws again! Another Shadowman falls! And another! The rest turn to flee, but too late! Taw is amongst them now, his dread weapon once more in his grasp, his enchanted spear moving too fast to see, the great jaws of his fell, wolfish steed snapping and tearing! The Shadowmen swiftly despatched or put to flight, Taw kneels at Snowpelt's side, takes a great hand in both of his own…

" 'Forgive my disobedience, but I have come, Brother,' says Taw, 'though too late, it would seem…'

" 'There is nothing to forgive. Take this, Brother,' replies Snowpelt, his great voice fading, and gives Taw his Howling-Axe, 'carry it from the field and leave me, for I am too much a burden even for your great wolf to bear… do not fear, the King of the Night shall not have me… for I know what to do! Mark well – there shall be no Shadow at Noon on _this_ day!' And for the last time, mirthful Snowpelt laughs…

"Though he has no eyes with which to weep (and they say, no heart with which to mourn, for he was born without that either) Taw-of-the-Screaming-Spear sorrowfully kisses his brother on the forehead and obeys… he departs, as swiftly as he came, bearing away the Howling-Axe, depriving the Shadow of its spoils…

"And, with his dying breath, Ereklass Snowpelt calls upon the Creator… and is answered! They say that on _that_ day, the Father of Creation reached down and touched the earth with His hand, and a bright, white Light bloomed in the desolation of the Shadow, so that even the dread King of Night was forced to lower his gaze… a great, dark cloud blossomed high above, in the shape, it is said, of a vast toadstool… and there, before the Shadowmount, a deep chasm to rival even the Pit of Dhoom itself! All that is left to mark the passing of a Hero… but it is enough. The Lord of the Grave shall not display the bones or arms of Snowpelt in _his_ dread barrow!"

Roth plucked a low, funereal march, his voice solemn and resonant…

"All is silent. All is still. Ereklass Snowpelt lives no more… but bound to the Horn is he, as are all Heroes of the Light, and his Legend will live-on, for as long as the Wheel turns, for so long as the sun shines."

Roth lowered his harp and bowed his head. His throat felt dry. He needed a _drink!_ The usual pause, while the audience came back to themselves, returned to the present from whichever place they went when a story-teller spoke of things long past, of legends faded to myths… and then, that which was meat and drink to a Gleeman, life and breath… applause!

The crowd that filled the common-room of Easing the Badger clapped enthusiastically and called for more, but that had been Roth's eighth and last story of the night so he shook his head, smiling. Nieda expected him to tell at least five, though they were old friends and she never actually came right out and said so… but a room and board had to be paid for, one way or another, and Roth rarely had coin for either… besides, the accommodations were not his alone, he was sharing with someone who definitely did not sing songs or tell tall tales! He glanced at the door.

_Ysmet should be back soon…_

But Nieda was nodding at him approvingly, before turning to scowl at her nephew and the serving wenches, to let them know that _they_ were not there to listen to stories… muscle-bound Bili returned to watching the neglected entrance with one eye, the often rowdy patrons with the other, while the slim girls in tight aprons scurried back to work, bearing heavily laden trays. Young Ayella, who had the rosebud lips of a Taraboner and very pretty ankles, came over with a clay cup of the Inn's best wine, and since Ysmet was not around to see, Roth smiled his appreciation at her. Though not _too_ warmly, as Nieda did not approve of that sort of thing.

Still, eight stories stood him in good stead… Roth usually told more than five because he enjoyed telling them, or at least sang a few songs afterwards. He liked performing – he was a bloody Gleeman, was he not? It was hardly a trade for a man who feared the eyes of others on him, who disliked attention… whereas Roth had always loved these things!

Roth took a grateful sip of wine, set the cup aside and rose from his stool, unconsciously giving his many-patched cloak a flutter… and abruptly became aware of the tall, red-headed young woman who had sneaked around behind him so that he would not see her until the tale was done.

"Bravo, Gleeman," she cried, "extraordinary!"

Roth stared in surprise. "Shrina!" He grinned delightedly. The next moment, she was cannoning into his arms, laughing, hugging him enthusiastically. A little _too_ enthusiastically, in fact.

"Please, Shrina, it's lovely to see you again, but… mind the harp! It's the only one I've got!"

Shrina withdrew somewhat, though still clutching his arms. She sniffed, disparagingly. "Honestly Roth, you _never_ change… you and that bloody harp! Why do you not just get _married_ to it?"

* * *

The Lady Ysmet of House Mitsobar strode purposefully over one of the Perfumed Quarter's many bridges, ignoring both the pungent smells that lingered in the evening air and the excited crowds of intoxicated, scantily-clad people surging past to either side. She was preoccupied… planning. Ysmet did not have mere plans as do most… rather, she had _a_ Plan – and it looked as though it might finally be coming to fruition, for all that it had taken long enough. But the Merchants had agreed – they had put up half of the money, after all, so perhaps… Ysmet allowed herself a brief, victorious smile. Yes… she was finally going to do it! As far as her investors were concerned, she would be opening up new markets in distant lands, for the purposes of expanding trade and making profit. But as far as _she_ was concerned… she was going to see places that even Jain Farstrider had never beheld! Or die in the attempt. Yet more Illuminator's nightflowers burst in the skies above, almost masking a horrid sound, just ahead. Ysmet's steps faltered and she scowled.

Before her, an old, fat Gleeman was leaning over the side of the bridge, noisily emptying his stomach into the turgid waters of the canal below. He straightened at her approach, wiping his mouth… the revellers pushing past to either side did not seem to notice, certainly, such sights were common during the Feast of Teven, though Ysmet certainly did, and sniffed disparagingly. Though it was no worse than some of the things she had seen during the Festival of Birds in her home-city of Ebou Dar…

"Ah, that's better," the greying, rotund Gleeman exclaimed, to no-one in particular, adding, "bloody oysters!" before continuing on his way, giving his many-patched cloak a flutter as though nothing untoward had happened. Ysmet glared and shook her head disapprovingly as he strode past, noting that the crude fellow – who stank of _brandy!_ – had a good deal more patches on his cloak than Roth did. A Master Gleeman then, rather than a Journeyman, as her lover proudly acknowledged himself to be, at every given opportunity… though when she first met Roth, he had been posing as a _Bard_. Gleemen occasionally did this, he had explained later, much as they loathed all manner of Bardkind… it was to make a point, apparently, though she had no idea _what_ point.

Though only a minor cousin of the Royal House, Ysmet had grown-up in the Tarasin Palace and was more accustomed to the company of Bards, but since meeting Roth, had learned a good deal more of Gleemen… perhaps more than she wished to!

_Roth lay in his shirt-sleeves on the narrow bed they shared, head resting on his palms, long legs encased in dark velvet comfortably crossed, gazing up at the ceiling, his lips moving but no sound emerging. Running through the tales he intended to tell that night, no-doubt ensuring that they were word-perfect in his mind, every pause and inflection just-so… he had told her that the Master Gleeman he stood 'prentice to used to rap him painfully on the knuckles with a stick for every single mistake, no matter how small!_

_Over by the wash-stand (somewhat chipped) Ysmet glanced away from Roth, shaking her head, and resumed checking her appearance in the small mirror (slightly cracked.) It would be well to look her best, for the coming meeting – she might barely have two spare coppers to rub together, but those accursed Merchants were expecting to receive a Noblewoman of one of Ebou Dar's most ancient Houses – and that was exactly who they were going to get. A good job they did not know that she was currently sharing cramped accommodation in the Perfumed Quarter, rather than staying at the King's Palace… she had been a guest there once before, on a previous visit to Illian, but that was when she was still connected to the Ruling House, which was no longer the case. Thank the Creator!_

_Besides, Ysmet much preferred Easing the Badger to the company of King Stepaneos and his court of cronies, swarming about him like so many sycophantic golden bees… though the gold often proved to be mere pinchbeck! Their stings were real enough, if conversational rather than actual… no, it was better here with Roth. Theirs was one of the rooms at the back of the Inn, and rather small – but Ysmet had certainly stayed in worse in the months since she had run away from Ebou Dar._

_Ysmet examined herself critically in the mirror. Her dark, ebony locks were arranged in a single thick braid down her back and two thinner braids hanging over either shoulder, a rather old-fashioned style, perhaps, but practical. It suited her. Her large, brown eyes moved to her face; olive skin, full lips, unblemished cheeks… she sighed. No duelling scar. It was not her fault that she had always been so much better with a blade than her opponents, that they had not been able to so much as touch her with sword or knife! But it would have been nice to at least have one beauty-scar…_

_Ysmet caught Roth's eye in the mirror. He was grinning at her – he _knew_ why she had sighed! Ysmet turned to glare at him. The young Gleeman had ceased his internal recitation and was leaning up on one elbow, golden-brown, wavy locks falling down over his sea-green eyes as usual, so that he had to brush them away in order to watch her. She liked to do that for him! When she was in the mood… which she was not at the moment._

_Usually, Ysmet did not care for facial-hair on a man – particularly the ridiculous chin-beards the locals grew! – but the moustache beneath Roth's rather pointed nose was small and carefully trimmed, so she did not mind so much and had let him keep it… though the single garnet ear-stud he wore looked a little strange. Ysmet shook her head in bemusement. He had won it from a Kandori Gleeman in a bizarre rhyming contest in which they had attempted to insult each other's abilities in the most skilful ways possible, set to music… whilst Ysmet had watched and listened, in some confusion. Roth had apparently triumphed – though only just – and the pair of patched-cloak fluttering fellows had seemed to part as friends, or at least as friendly as two strutting, competing songbirds could be… Gleemen were odd indeed!_

_Roth schooled his features a little, but the mirth remained in his eyes._

_"You are thinking that Gleemen are strange, no-doubt," he commented, in his melodic voice, "but really – you Ebou Dari females are a burning-sight stranger!"_

_"How so, my cooing dove?" Ysmet enquired, levelly. Though her eyes flashed dangerously. Roth raised his hands in temperance._

_"Peace, my darling! No offence! All respect to the honour of the women of Altara, but-"_

_"_Southern_ Altara, you chirping canary! Those of the north would not know honour if it bit them upon the rump!" Ysmet sniffed. How many times did she have to explain this to him? Roth, who did not even come from a nation, however divided, but hailed from a town that neither Tarabon nor Arad Doman seemed particularly interested in claiming, merely shrugged._

_"The south, then! And even more respect to _my_ woman in particular…" Roth blew her a kiss, fluttering his eyelashes, and despite herself, Ysmet smiled momentarily, as it was such a ridiculous gesture, and amused her every time! "…but there isn't another place in the world whose womenfolk actually regret _not_ having a scar on their face!" Roth laughed, and held out his arms. "Come here, my unblemished lovely! Let us cuddle awhile!"_

_"I do not have time for that! Business before pleasure, remember?" Which reminded her… Ysmet picked up the small-yet-heavy velvet bag from the washstand and held it open, inspecting the contents with a frown. Gold and silver jewellery, all of it very fine, set with diamonds and rubies, emeralds and sapphires… her mother's. Now hers. For a little while longer, at least._

_"Don't you ever regret not marrying that Nobleman, or one of his ilk?" Roth wondered aloud, "some rich fellow, who can offer you more than this?" An elegant, long-fingered hand gestured at their mean, if comfortable, surroundings._

_Ysmet snorted. "No! You should have seen the greasy oaf Aunt Tylin wished me to wed! Posturing fool! I called him that, and worse, in front of his vile family… I even duelled with his rather ferocious sister over the matter, and gave the termagant a good scar to remember me by! Why, if I hadn't left when I did, I might have ended-up duelling his bloody mother also!" Ysmet brandished the velvet bag, her own mother's jewellery clinking inside. "I saw the way things were going… since my mother gave these to me and as I have no surviving sisters and had decided _not_ to marry, I felt perfectly entitled to take my own dowry with me when I absconded! I mean to put it to a better use than seeing it squandered at the horse-races by a fool husband I never asked for!" Though she doubted that her aunt, the Queen, saw it quite that way…_

_"Slow horses? Shocking!" exclaimed Roth, who had heard only shorter versions of this story before, adding with a grin, "well, if you change your mind about matrimony, I am sure I could waste your dowry in much more interesting ways than that! On fine clothing, mostly – if you don't believe me, I'll prove it to you!"_

_Ysmet stalked over to the bed, sat and, seizing Roth by the ears, kissed him rather forcefully and at some length. When she eventually released him, she took a deep breath and regarded him levelly. "We shall see about that. While you make for a fine lover, I suspect you would be a rather poor husband… but I regret nothing, my handsome Gleeman!" She poked him in the chest with a finger. "You had best not either, or I'll put a scar on that pretty smooth face of yours also!"_

_"No regrets here, my sweet," Roth assured her, somewhat breathlessly. Though it seemed contradictory to him… the Noble Houses of Ebou Dar wished their daughters to be docile and compliant wives on the one hand… yet on the other, they taught their girls the arts of sword-fencing and knife-fighting from an early age!_

_Ysmet smiled, relenting, smoothing those fine locks back over his ears._

_"Will you not come with me, Roth?" she enquired, in softer tones._

_"I would love to, my dearest, but you know what Nieda is like… the evening draws on and if I don't go down and sing for our collective suppers, then she'll throw us out into the street on our collective…" Roth did not trouble to finish the sentence._

_Ysmet scowled, rising and returning to the washstand. She thought that Roth was exaggerating, the Innkeeper would not expel them if Roth missed but one performance, Mistress Sidoro seemed to be an old friend of his… she suspected that he just didn't want to go. She turned back to the mirror. The blouse she wore was fine, creamy silk, embroidered with brightly coloured feathers on the sleeves, her skirts of sea-green satin… she stamped her feet against the heels of her suede boots to settle them, glumly looking down at the jewellery. Oh well._

_"I hope this is enough," Ysmet muttered, "that thief you introduced me to will probably give me barely half their value…"_

_"He'll treat you more fairly than most, my darling…" Roth smiled, reached up and removed the garnet-stud from his ear, tossing it to Ysmet. "Here, add this to the haul! I never much cared for it…"_

_Ysmet had fast hands – her duelling-master had always said so – and snagged the not-particularly precious jewel from the air, eyeing it disparagingly before adding it to the glittering stack. It would not make much difference, but it was the thought that counted, she supposed. With satisfaction, she also added the topaz-set choker that her prospective fiancé had given to her, the article worn by young Ebou Dari women of marriageable age prior to wearing the marriage knife itself – she would not need that now! She hoped it would all be enough…_

_The negotiations were complete, and provided that she could show a sizeable banker's draft to her investors, they would have no choice but to provide the rest of the capital for her venture. And then… construction could commence._

_"Thank-you, songbird," Ysmet muttered absently, her dark eyes moving to Roth's flute, sitting on the table in its open case… it appeared to be solid silver, chased with gold… and he was always complaining that it was rather shrill, had a poor tone… Ysmet picked up the garish instrument, turning it back and forth in the dim light that filtered through the shutters._

_"How much do you suppose this is worth..?" Ysmet wondered, idly._

_Roth was up off the bed in a heart-beat, slinging his patched cloak across his back, grabbing his harp-case and whisking the flute out of her hand as he slipped past, leaving a quick, demure kiss on her cheek as he went!_

_"Sorry my lovely, but a Gleeman should never keep the crowd waiting overlong, and I must run!" and he was off, through the slatted wooden door and down the stairs, bearing his precious flute to safety, beyond the reach of moneylenders._

_Ysmet scowled after him. She loved Roth… at least she _thought_ she did, though had never particularly loved a man before… there was something about this odd Gleeman from the west that she found appealing and… necessary, for her own happiness. She had not been very happy before she met him, certainly, and he always managed to make her smile. At least, when he was not making her frown! But when they were apart, she often found herself wondering about what he was doing, worrying about his safety… and when they were together, for some reason she felt oddly… complete. That was love, was it not? She certainly found herself growing unaccustomedly angry when Roth was to be found in the company of other women, whether or not he had encouraged it! Though a Gleeman often was, to be fair, it was a very… public way to live, and a handsome fellow with a fine singing voice was rarely short of female attention…_

_Besides, Roth loved her too, he had said so and had better have meant it, or he was going to find himself kissing the wrong end of her mother's marriage-knife! Though set with even finer jewels than the rest of her small legacy, she had no intention of parting with that. She would wear it herself one day, when she had the right to… when and if she had made an honest man out of Roth! If it was even possible to do so, with a Gleeman… No, he certainly returned her feelings, but… Ysmet sighed. There were just times that she got the impression that, while Roth loved _her_, he loved his bloody harp and flute just a little bit more! Not to mention that flaming threadbare cloak of his, with the silly fluttering patches! He had told her, quite seriously – and he was not serious very often – that his Gleeman's cloak would always be the first thing he saved from a burning building, regardless of what other precious possessions of his lay inside!_

_Ysmet secured the jewellery in the inner pocket of her short, silken coat, buckled her slim-bladed sword to the belt snugged tight about her slender waist, swept a voluminous grey cloak over her shoulders and paced down the old, creaking rear stairs of the Inn every bit as regally as if she were descending the marble steps of the Tarasin Palace… she had jewels to barter, Merchants to go and see. She did not care for Merchant-Bankers, but there it was. Investors were unfortunately necessary to her Plan, every bit as much as the renegade Sea Folk fellow she was meeting later. Raab had best not be late this time, or she would put a few more holes in his ears to hang those silly rings through!_

Ysmet had crossed several more bridges and navigated numerous cramped canal-side streets before she came to the reluctant realisation that she was lost… and she was supposed to be an explorer! Losing one's way was hardly an acceptable thing to do, in light of this! But the sprawling warren of Illian's Perfumed Quarter was harder to navigate than the open ocean, after all, even though she had been here for at least a month… the trouble was, it all looked the same, one bridge much like another… and she had always thought _Ebou Dar_ had too many canals!

Ysmet was preoccupied with glancing about herself, hoping to catch a glimpse of the arched roofs of the King's Palace, the Assemblage Building, some sort of landmark anyway, to help her get her bearings… at which point, she found herself walking straight into a tall man who was not looking where he was going either! They collided, without much force, and each took a step back.

"Watch where you walk, fellow!" Ysmet snapped, touching her sword-hilt.

The fellow in question examined her with cold, blue eyes. He was wearing fine (if worn) clothing, the golden scrollwork on his knee-length burgundy coat faded, but the sword-hilt his signet-ringed hand rested lightly on was well-engraved with silver and bore a Heron-mark. The embroidered Red Bull on the breast of his cloak and the reddish moustaches waxed into points that flared beneath an aquiline nose marked him out as a Murandian… even before he opened his mouth and, in the distinctive lilting accents of that nation, began to effusively and surprisingly apologise!

"My dear Lady, do forgive me for near-enough trampling you like a wild ox! 'Tis a thousand pardons I ask for the imposition! Unforgivable!" He performed an elegant, courtly bow, sweeping his shabby yellow cloak back and to the side. He was younger than he looked, the moustaches adding a few years but for up-close…

Ysmet swallowed the angrier words she had been about to utter. She had briefly wondered if they might duel over the matter, since those of Murandy were famed for their mercurial temperaments – indeed, her own anger at having lost her bearings like some foolish outlander (which to be fair, she was) was such that she almost wished to! But his unexpectedly mannerly behaviour took her aback.

"Yes, well… there is no need-"

"It is plain mortified, I am! And what must you think of me, to go barging into you like a clumsy great carthorse?" The Murandian shook his head ruefully. His long hair, dark brown with reddish streaks, shook against his shoulders… without the ridiculous moustaches he would be rather beautiful, Ysmet considered… not that _that_ had anything to do with anything!

"I was not looking where I was going either," she pointed-out, mollified.

"Nonsense! The fault is all mine, so it is, inconsiderate billygoat that I am! Is there anything I might do to make up for my hasty and intemperate behaviour, now?"

Ysmet blinked. He had an odd turn-of-phrase, granted, but seemed sincere in his regret. "Well… as you mention it, you do not happen to know where the Bridge of Flowers is? I can find my Inn from there, but I seem to have lost my way…"

"Aye, indeed I do!" The tall, young Murandian swivelled, pointing. "Cross that canal, turn left, then right and the bridge in question should be right before you, my Lady… though might I escort you? I fear the streets are packed with ne'er-do-wells, many of them taken in strong drink, even more so than usual!"

"I thank you, but there is no need… I am well-able to protect myself." The Murandian looked disappointed. "But may I know your name, sir?"

The young man – young for the Heron-mark, certainly – bowed again, even more elegantly if anything. He certainly moved very gracefully… an excellent dancer, no-doubt…

"I have the honour to be the Lord Dagnon do Merivny a'Vrois, my Lady..?"

"Ysmet of House Mitsobar…" The words were out before she could recall them and give the name 'Rashiel Blucha.' Ysmet rarely gave her true name, rather than that which she had used in most of her dealings in Illian… word might get back to Aunt Tylin, after all, and she had no wish to be kidnapped by the Queen's armsmen and delivered back to Ebou Dar bound hand-and-foot for an old-fashioned knife-point wedding! 'Blucha' always amused Roth (when it did not disconcert him) and 'Rashiel' she took from a former companion, long-since gone to the White Tower.

"I assume you are here to swear the Hunter's Oath, Lady Ysmet, as am I?"

"No, of course not!" As if she had time to waste on gallivanting after a silly myth! The young Lord – Dagnon – blinked. Perhaps he was offended, though his handsome features remained impassive. Oh dear. He had given her directions, and she had walked into him as much as he into her… she had no wish to insult the helpful fellow, and it positively had _nothing_ to do with how undeniably attractive he was! Besides, she had seen plenty of other women with swords in the City, those that did not carry quarterstaffs or have large amounts of knives strapped to them, doubtless also here to take the Hunter's Oath, so it was a fair assumption to make…

"That is to say, I have other business here…" Ysmet qualified, "though under different circumstances, I would be happy to seek after the Horn of Valere, a noble calling I am sure…" Lord Dagnon smiled (he had a lovely smile!) twisted at the points of his moustache a little and, with a final graceful bow, continued on his way.

Ysmet watched the tall young Lord stride away with bemusement. Well, the Great Hunt had been called again, False Dragons abounded and Roth claimed that Old Hob roamed abroad, a-hunting with his wild pack of Darkhounds (_really!_) so in these disquieting times, anything was possible, anything at all – _even_ a polite Murandian!

* * *

Roth looked around for an empty table… there, in the corner, one of the regulars, the ship-captain (he thought he was called 'Bil Dromon' or something like that) was rising from his place, a frown on his square and oddly-bearded face, the suspiciously cloaked and cowled men he had been whispering with earlier, already gone… Conspiring and consorting instead of having the courtesy to listen to his tales… _smugglers!_

As Roth and Shrina sat down, Nieda came over with a tray, set a bottle of the best wine down and a fine pewter goblet, silver-engraved. She smiled significantly at Shrina, who smiled back. Roth frowned. He knew about Nieda and her occasional pigeons, flying north to Tar Valon, knew where her allegiance lay. No mere clay cup for an Aes Sedai, clearly!

"Thank-you, Mistress Sidoro," said Shrina, "it's awfully nice to be back at the Badger again. Goodness, young Bili has grown since last I was here! I barely recognised him…"

Nieda sighed. "Eats me out of house and home, he does," she muttered ruefully, "but he be a good boy and does drop trouble-makers into the canal when the need do arise, so worth his weight in gold, he be!" Nieda nodded to Roth. "A strange tale that last," she commented, "fair shivered my spine, it did!"

"I'll tell one about Gaidal Cain and Birgitte courting tomorrow night, Nieda," Roth assured her, "promise!" Nieda nodded, satisfied, and walked back to the bar, patting the thick roll of grey hair at her nape. Roth poured the wine and they caught up. It had been nearly two years…

"So, Shrina… where are the Terrible Twins?"

"Roth! You mustn't call them that! Though it _is_ quite funny… my beloved boys are in the stables, attending to their ferocious steeds, since they'd bite the fingers off any stable-lads who went near them… no-doubt they are feeding carrots to _their_ horses whilst neglecting to give any to _mine_… I sometimes think that apart from me, those beasts of theirs are the only things in the world they have any time for… perhaps, even a bit _more_ time than they have for their…"

Shrina might not be the most discreet of women, but even she would not say 'Aes Sedai' in a crowded southern Inn in her rather loud and carrying voice… so she glanced significantly at Roth, and just formed the words with her full lips instead.

Roth grinned. Partly at Shrina's conception of being tactful, but also at the pleasant memories those lips engendered – and _he_ had been the first to kiss them!

"Carrots, eh? I am surprised they let you out of their sight long enough!"

"Oh, apart from almost getting trampled by wild horses, Illian isn't _that_ dangerous a place! Besides, in the event, you will protect me won't you, dear Roth?"

"No! Never! I would like to, but am sadly unable. As you well know, I am a lover, not a fighter!" Roth shrugged. "In the event of any trouble, _you_ can always protect _me_, Shrina, with that sword I hear you carry, or…"

Roth glanced at her hands. Shrina was not wearing her Great Serpent ring. She scowled at him. Roth was a diplomatic man (at least he considered himself so, if no-one else did) and if Shrina wanted to travel incognito, then that was her business.

"…_or_ your fists! Remember back when that surly girl, the baker's daughter, what was her name? The one who called you a strumpet…"

"It wasn't a _strumpet_, it was a _harlot_, so I bashed her in the nose! Her name was Dylia! That showed her!"

"It certainly did. So why are you here, Shrina? As if I couldn't guess!"

And Roth deepened his voice, declaiming;

_"In the last, lorn fight 'gainst the fall of long night, __the mountains stand guard and the dead shall be ward, __for the grave is no bar to my call!"_

Some sailors on the nearest bench banged their wooden mugs on the table in approval (or perhaps they were also indicating the vessel's emptiness to the serving maids) and Roth rose from his chair a little, grinning and fluttering his cloak.

Shrina eyed Roth levelly as the words faded into the hubbub of the crowded common-room. "I am here to take my Hunter's Oath in the Square of Tammuz tomorrow." She nodded, firmly.

"Hah! As soon as they called the Hunt, I _knew_ I'd see you!"

"_You're_ a fine one to talk – the Feast of Teven and the Great Hunt for the Horn at the same time? I doubt there's a Gleeman between here and the Blight who hasn't come running to Illian with unseemly haste! Fluttering his silly patches and _drooling_ at the thought of all the coin he can rake in!"

Roth opened his mouth to point-out that he had already been in the City when the Hunt was called, and was not nearly so avaricious as most Gleemen, but-

"Never mind that!" Shrina narrowed her eyes. "Have you been home lately?"

"Not since the day I left, and I'm _not_ sorry – the bloody place always did stink of fish! Though I send a letter to my old ma every now and then, with a nice song too, since she always liked my songs! Well, the less crude ones, at least…"

"I just wondered… I'm worried about grandpa, I haven't heard from him in over a year… and there are these disturbing stories… all saying different things, but they all mention Falme, or at least Toman Head…"

"Yes, I've heard the rumours too. One of the Hawkwing's lost armies come back from the dead… huge grey monsters with long noses… Aes Sedai using the One Power in battle…" Roth trailed off. Shrina was eyeing him, censoriously. She had certainly been easier to talk to before she went off to the Tower. Though he had already been long gone from Falme when she did…

"It sounds like you have been instrumental in spreading those absurd stories," Shrina pointed out. And sniffed, disapprovingly. Roth grinned.

"Idle rumour-mongering? All part of an honest Gleeman's trade, Shrina!" But seeing that she was worried, he went on in placatory tones, "it's all nonsense, and even if it isn't, if a monster came out of the sea and looked sideways at your grandpa, then my money (if I ever had any!) would be on _him!_ He's a scary man – chased me right through town with that hatchet, he did, with everyone watching!"

Shrina laughed delightedly. "Oh yes, after he caught us in the barn together! It was hilarious!" Roth scowled. Shrina certainly hadn't changed either!

"Not for _me_ it bloody wasn't, it was _frightening!_ Your grandpa runs flaming fast for such an old fellow! He would have caught me too, if I hadn't cut through the stables of the Black Lion and climbed a few garden walls… had to hide in an outhouse until he eventually stopped looking for me! _Watching_ for me! No, if one of those 'Shawnshans' annoys him, I wouldn't like to be in its shoes… not that big grey monsters wear shoes… or do they?"

"Of course they don't, stop being silly Roth. And grandpa isn't _that_ bad!"

Roth snorted. Shrina glared at him, though not very forcefully, then shrugged.

"Yes, well, if my Hunt takes me north, I may head back to the old place, just to make sure he is alright… and all of my cousins as well, I suppose…"

"Your Hunt? You really mean to do this, Shrina?"

Shrina scowled. "Go ahead Roth, make your amusing jokes!"

"Perish the thought!" Roth pulled his harp-case nearer and lowered his voice, significantly. "In fact, honoured Hunter, I may even have a clue for you." Shrina sat up straighter. Roth continued; "I found something in the Aiel Waste that I was going to tell you about the next time our paths crossed, though it has been a while… so I thought I might send a letter to the Tow-" – Shrina's eyes narrowed – "…to the island," finished Roth, smoothly. "Not that you're ever there! I was going to send it to that talkative friend of yours to pass-on, the one who lives above the library..."

Shrina blinked, recalling, looking surprised. "Hold-on! When were you ever amongst the Aiel, Roth? I thought that you did not want to go there?"

Some Gleemen avoided the Waste while others actively preferred it. Aiel audiences were no different from other audiences Roth considered, a bit better behaved than most, even, but he had never particularly desired to go there himself… he sunburnt easily and preferred the comforts of civilisation too much.

"I didn't _want_ to go there! It was by accident! Long story, Shrina my lovely…" It always was, with Roth! Shrina sighed, and took a sip of wine.

"Well… give me the short version then. _And_ my clue, I need a good clue since I've no idea where to even start looking for the bloody thing!" Though when she found the Horn of Valere (as she surely would) Shrina knew _exactly_ where she would take it… to the Hill above the Waves. Prophecy must be fulfilled, after all…

Again, she complacently thought of the strange girl from Andor, the one who had… Visions. A Horn, floating above her head? Gleemen would tell tales of her for a thousand years! She might even end-up being bound to it herself!

Roth poured them some more wine. "How did I end up in the Aiel Waste? (The Aielmen call it 'the Three-fold Land' by the way.) Well… in-short, an insane midget took me up to see the Blight, over in the east of Shienar! I was supposed to be writing songs about his Lordship's adventures but it all turned out to be the most horrific experience of my life… and I've had a few! Did I ever tell you about that huge black dog with the glowing red eyes that Old Willi and I encountered in the woods? The one we had to play music to all night, so that it wouldn't eat us?"

"Several times." Shrina yawned delicately behind her hand and rolled her eyes. Roth frowned. She clearly did not believe it had happened… but it had!

"Well… the whole thing with the Blight, it was a bloody nightmare! I managed to drop my best flute while we were fighting our way through a huge mob of Trollocs and later, after the Worm-monster ate our horses and we got split-up, I wandered in the wrong direction for weeks and ended-up bumping into three Aielmen who were out hunting for the Dark One! Not the Horn of Valere like you, Shrina – they were hunting _Shai'tan!_ That's what they _said_ they were doing anyway, though perhaps it was a joke… they have a flaming odd sense of humour, those Aiel!"

Shrina shifted impatiently in her chair. Roth pretended not to notice.

"Anyway," the Gleeman continued, "at first, the Aielmen thought I was a Shienaran and nearly stuck their spears in me, but I showed them my cloak and fluttered the patches a bit for them (I wasn't able to speak as I'd run-out of water the week before) so that was alright then. Quite nice fellows really, those Aiel, once you got to know them, if rather alarming in appearance – their leader especially! The short one gave me a drink from his waterskin and the big one picked me up and they took me back to Wet Sands Hold which wasn't too far from the Blight… in fact, it rather _was_ like the Blight, I don't know how those Shaidos can bring themselves to _live_ like that… dreadful place… fine-looking girls though, those Maidens of the Spear (_you'd_ make a good Maiden, Shrina!) if a little on the scarred side, admittedly. Though I didn't mind that, I don't have a single scar on me, except for where I burned my arm on the kettle, so it's interesting to lie abed with a woman who has enough scars for both of us put together!" Roth smiled lewdly, his eyes glazing a little.

"Spare me the sordid details!" Shrina was clearly growing more impatient.

Roth shook his head. "Sorry, miles away. Forgive me, my lovely!"

Shrina sniffed. "You mustn't keep calling me that, I am _not_ your lovely! At least, not any more, I am Aebel and Blaek's lovely – and a very lovely one at that!"

"Can I at least say it when the scowling simulacrums aren't about?"

"No! And don't call them that, they are my lovely boys too… and I carry a sword! Though it is quite funny, I suppose… but what does simulacrum mean? Is it another word for 'twins?' Oh, never mind, I'll ask Ellyth next time I see her… if I remember to…"

"Next time you..? Is her Ladyship not with you, then?"

Shrina scowled. "We aren't joined at the hip, Roth! Though I do miss her… but Ellyth has her Cause and I have my Hunt… I dare say we shall be reconciled and reunited in time for the Last Battle…" Roth blinked, confused. "Never mind that! Continue with your silly story, Gleeman! You had met some Aielmen and had just got back to damp mud cave or something… you do go on, as though everyone should be in awe of your great adventures… I've had adventures too, you know! You never bloody want to hear about them though, it's all you, you, you!"

Roth grinned. He went on? Well, he supposed he did, there were few Gleemen who did not, but Shrina was the _Mistress_ of going on and on! Although that friend of hers he had met at the Tower that time, Renn Sedai, came in a close second!

"Wet Sands Hold, Shrina. Anyway, their Wise One tended my injuries and nursed me back to health – now _there_ was a grim woman! She seemed to quite like me though, which rather surprised all of the other Aiel, since they said that old Sadora _never_ likes anyone! Anyhow, it was while I was resting-up and recovering from my ordeal that I found an old piece of parchment… one of the Aielmen who'd been out unsuccessfully hunting for the Dark One, great big fellow, had it tucked into an old book in his library… he was happy to let me have it, since he said that he wasn't interested in finding the Horn of Valere, just some sort of a strange metal tower he'd read about, down near the River Manetherendrelle… or perhaps it was the Arinelle..?"

"Is this _really_ the short version?" snapped Shrina, "honestly, Roth, you _do_ love the sound of your own voice! Where is my clue? Give me my clue!"

Roth sighed, and slid his long fingers beneath the lining of his harp-case, drawing out an ancient scrap of yellowed parchment, somewhat stained. Shrina eagerly (and rather rudely) snatched it from him. She perused the four thin, vermilion lines of much-faded ink, scratched out in spidery, antique scrawl, and frowned.

"This is written in the Old Tongue," she muttered, "if only Renn were here!"

"Well of course it is, it's very old – and it is in the _same_ handwriting as…"

"Hush, Gleeman! Hmm… I see _Paerish Swar_ which means 'the wood that is dark' and _Aman_ which is 'Dragon' of course, but I'll be dipped in hog-fat if I can understand the rest! What does it say?"

Naturally, Roth knew what was written on it off-by-heart and promptly recited a translation for Shrina, his voice echoing portentously;

"_In Paerish Swar; Third of the Three_

_where Western Dragon mote it be –_

_bound to it are they, through the Ages…"_

Shrina was leaning forward, looking interested. Roth glanced at her, licked his lips, and belatedly added, in less impressive tones;

_"…something-something-something Sages."_

There was a pause. Shrina eyed Roth with suspicion. He smiled, innocently.

"Watcher's Oath! What in the Wheel do you mean with your 'something-something-something?' " Shrina demanded, hotly, "is this supposed to be some kind of a silly joke, like when we were children and you made up that rhyme about the Eye of the World appearing at the bottom of your ma's garden? _And_ the Green Man hiding behind the bird-bath? Honestly, I can't believe I actually went to _look!_"

"No! That was just a jest, and quite a good one too, I might say! But I am actually serious about this! Gleeman's Oath! There is mud, or perhaps it is dried blood, all over the bottom of it, see? The final line can barely be read at all…"

"Gleeman's Oath? Hah! But yes, it is indecipherable… definitely blood…"

"Well, those Aielmen _are_ always stabbing each other with their spears… though the big fellow said he obtained the book from a Peddler… stuck in the binding of an old history by Jeorad Manyard, who served the Hawkwing, or some such..."

"I cannot really understand any of this…" Shrina sighed. A Battle Ajah Sister did not need to be as conversant with the Old Tongue as an Aes Sedai of the Brown Ajah… but even so… she wished she had paid better attention in Serafelle's classes! Instead of mooning over which handsome Youngling she intended to bond…

"Well, _I_ can! And that last word is _definitely_ 'Sages.' I think… I wrote it out for you in the Vulgar, on the back. For those who lack education! You know that I am conversant with the Old Tongue, as well as the High-Chant, if self-taught… remember that old Prophecy you asked me to translate when you were a girl, because your grandfather wouldn't? It's in exactly the same bloody handwriting, I could swear it is!"

"I asked you to _translate_ it Roth, not turn it into a bloody _song!_" Shrina relented. "Guaire Amalasan's handwriting, eh? Huh! Though I thank you for the interesting clue... I suppose." She turned the parchment over, to Roth's more familiar florid scrawl. "Hmm… 'bound to it' sounds promising, 'bound to it, through the Ages…' and there is at least a location… the Darkwood, though I had not thought to go _that_ far north… 'Western Dragon…' that's alarming! But… 'Third of the Three?' What does _that_ mean? There is only _one_ Horn of Valere, after all…"

"But up in the Borderlands, they quest for the Eye of the World also… so that makes two things… and as for the other… hmm… Callandor?"

"But that has already been found! It is right there, in the Stone of Tear, though they would not let Ellyth and I go and look at it, when we were last there…" Shrina scowled. She must have picked up some of her Warder's prejudices, however justified they might be, for she added; "stupid bloody Tairens!" under her breath.

"Well, something else then… Avendesora, the Tree of Life? The Hawkwing's sword, Justice? Mangore Kiramin's favourite harp? What else do foolish types (present company excepted!) go questing for? I do not know, Shrina, but it is at least a clue, and better than nothing, so you can either continue to grumble or you can thank me with a chaste kiss on the cheek, my lovely! Or a not-so-chaste kiss on…"

At which point, Ysmet returned. Fortunately, she did not appear to have heard Roth's last comment. Her face was flushed with excitement as she leant down to kiss him exuberantly.

"Roth, my handsome song-thrush!" Roth raised his eyebrows. Ysmet was in a good mood. The investors must have agreed. Ysmet realised that Roth was not alone and turned a cool gaze on Shrina. "And who are you?" she enquired, coldly.

Shrina smiled, tucking the folded piece of parchment into the front of her green, woollen dress, so that it nestled between her breasts. "Me? _I'm_ the girl who was going to _marry_ your song-bird, before he ran off to be a Gleeman and I… went somewhere else. _That's_ who I am! And who might _you_ be, missy?"

Ysmet scowled. "Roth, do you know this woman?"

"She's an… old friend, Ysmet…"

"I'm not _old!_" declared Shrina.

"The Lady Ysmet of House Mitsobar – Shrinalla Tolamani of the… of the Do Miere A'vron," Roth muttered, doing his duty by way of introductions.

Ysmet sat down at the table. Shrina stared at her. Ysmet stared back. Roth sighed. 'One pretty girl means fun at the fair – two pretty girls… a dreadful nightmare!' He grabbed his harp.

"I think I'll go and sing a song!" Roth declared brightly, rising swiftly and leaving them to it. When he saw that they were still eyeing each other like two strange cats in an alleyway and not watching him, the Gleeman veered away from the raised platform he had occupied earlier (now taken-up by the fumble-fingered fool with the bittern, who was welcome to it!) and slipped out toward the stables to say hello to the Twins.

* * *

"Aebel loves Mosk… does Mosk love Aebel?"

Mosk whickered and nudged his white-flashed nose against the young Warder. Clearly, he _did_ love Aebel. So, Aebel fed him another carrot. The Mayener Gaidin was wearing a somewhat soppy expression, as was his twin brother, whilst they communed with their beloved horses. Had anyone else been present, this would of course not have been the case, but the stables were deserted, except for the various steeds of those staying at the Inn. As well as… from the hayloft above came a muted scuffling sound. Aebel glared upwards a moment, but the noise did not resume.

The Twins had earlier bought a bucket-full of carrots from the stable-boy for three coppers. Carrots would have been just _one_ copper not so long ago. Even compared with Tar Valon – no cheap place at the best of times – the prices down south were ridiculous! But these were not the best of times, far from it, and everything seemed to have got dearer. Even carrots. Still, at least they had argued the enterprising lad down from _five_ coppers, the little thief!

The Twins had given some to Shrina's gelding A'vron also, to be fair, but had saved the largest and juiciest specimens for their own horses, who probably loved carrots slightly more than they loved _them_. But there was no need to dwell on this.

"Does Merk want another carrot?" Blaek enquired. Merk did want another carrot, clearly… he tossed his head and whinnied, seeming to nod. "Merk will get fat if he eats too much carrots!" Blaek chided. "But he may have one more…"

A soft footfall from the back door of the Inn and the Twins glanced up, the fond expressions they reserved for their horses (and Shrina) dissolving into the habitual hostility they directed at the rest of the world… and one person in particular. They narrowed their eyes in unison. They had met Roth before, and had not liked him any more than Atual Gaidin had… Warders and Gleemen rarely became fast friends!

"The Terrible Twosome!" Roth smiled at them, inclining his head and fluttering his patches a little, then raised his harp, long fingers caressing its strings.

"Oh no," Aebel growled, "it is-"

"-that bloody Gleeman!" Blaek snarled.

At which, a pleasing voice drifted to them across the cobbles of the yard, raised in not-so-pleasing song, accompanied by the jaunty strains of a harped melody;

_"'Tis Aebel and Blaek –oh!_

_Twin peas in a pod!_

_Two sides of one coin –though…"_

Roth drew out the last word, then, twanging his harp, delivered the final line;

_"…not even – both _odd!_"_

If Roth had expected an ecstatic reception to his impromptu song, he was disappointed. The Twin Warders blinked at him, like cats… which made _him_ the mouse! They spoke without looking at each other, dark eyes fixed coldly on their sarcastic serenader.

"Look, Blaek… the foolish Gleeman, Roth Blucha."

"Yes Aebel, the silly Gleeman, Roth, who thinks that he is clever-"

"-_and_ amusing… when he is clearly _neither_."

Roth grinned, and bowed in acknowledgement, flourishing his cloak a little… but taking care to not get too close. He knew how fast the Twins could move!

"Aebel?" wondered Blaek.

"Yes, Blaek?" responded Aebel.

"The Gleeman… he is skinny and weedy and cannot fight…"

"It is true… of a certainty, it is true…"

Roth's smile slipped a bit. It was _fairly_ true, but still rather insulting!

"So," Blaek continued, consideringly, "were we to pick him up by his heels and dip his head into the horse-trough..?"

"Yes," agreed Aebel, "I see where you are going with this, brother – he would scarcely be able to prevent us from doing so, would he?"

Roth blinked. The water in the horse-trough looked rather dirty…

"Indeed he could not…" Blaek mused further.

"He most certainly would not…" Aebel speculated.

"So let us wash his girlish hair for him!"

"Yes, let us!"

As one, the Twins darted forward – but Roth had been expecting the usual bullying behaviour, and was already haring back into the Inn, a step ahead of them… he would seek safety with the womenfolk! And he did.

Back in the common-room, the Twins pulled-up short, scowling at Roth as he swiftly slid back behind the table, taking care to sit close to Shrina – she would protect him! He smiled triumphantly at the hovering Warders… but glancing at the 'two pretty girls' his smile took on a sickly cast. It had only been a few moments, but how much could change in that time! Ysmet and Shrina were deep in animated conversation – they had decided to become friends! It was always the bloody same – one moment hissing and scratching, the next purring and grooming each other! They both looked his way in an amused and condescending fashion… clearly, they were discussing _him!_ Though the chatter ended at his reappearance… Shrina leant toward Ysmet and whispered something… then they looked at Roth and giggled! _Women!_

"What are you talking about?" demanded Roth, suspiciously. As if he did not know! Ysmet smiled and patted his hand.

"Nothing of consequence, my prattling parakeet!" she reassured him, though he did not find the way she winked at Shrina particularly reassuring. Shrina sniggered, and turned to the Twins.

"So there you are, my handsome boys," she smiled, "finished stuffing your four-legged friends with carrots, have you?" Shrina indicated Ysmet. "The Lady Ysmet – she has been telling me all about her Plan… amongst other things…" She and Ysmet glanced at Roth, and chuckled. He flushed. Shrina noted that the Twins were glaring at the Gleeman. "What's this? You haven't been _chasing_ poor Roth, have you? Threatening him, like the last time? You _know_ how delicate he is!"

"Of course not, Shrina."

"Not at all, Shrina."

The Twin Warder's faces became smooth and expressionless… innocent… but their dark eyes flashed, promising retribution to the Gleeman for his rude song, at a later date… when he did not have their Aes Sedai's skirts to hide behind!

Roth gulped, and reached for the bottle. Shrina smiled at Ysmet, indicating her Warders… "Aebel and Blaek Feruile…" – she glared at the Twins – "where are your manners?" The Twins flushed, and bowed formally, hands over hearts.

Ysmet inclined her head, though there was a hint of confusion in her eyes. "Which is which?" she enquired. The Twins eyed each other, repressing the urge to sigh. Was it not obvious? It was to them!

"I am not always entirely sure myself," Shrina laughed. The Twins did sigh, this time. Shrina turned to Roth. "Ysmet has been telling me all about her venture… and _your_ part in it!" Roth winced. The Aiel Waste had been bad enough… but where Ysmet wished to go… it did not bear thinking about! And, oddly enough for someone from a coastal town, he loathed travelling by sea! The motion of the waves always made him feel distinctly unwell… Ysmet was eyeing him suspiciously. Roth smiled.

"I cannot wait, my dear…" he told her, "a bold adventure! What more could a besotted Gleeman ask for?" Ysmet smiled back, then frowned, glancing around the common-room.

"Yes, well," the young Noblewoman muttered, "we are not going anywhere without our ship, _and_ the fellow I need to build it for me… where in the Wheel has Raab got to? I told him that if he was late the next time, I would hang him up by his heels in the accursed rigging… which I can now finally afford to buy!"

Shrina shrugged. "The Sea Folk are normally quite punctual. Especially when there is money to be made. Perhaps he fell in a canal and forgot how to swim?"

"Not likely… though a few moments in one of the Perfumed Quarter's canals would be enough to kill anyone, if not by drowning!" They laughed.

The Twins glanced at each other. Aebel silently formed the name 'Raab?' while Blaek bit his lower lip. Something of this filtered through the bond, for Shrina eyed them, curious. Aebel leant down, and whispered softly in her ear.

"You did _what?_" Shrina exclaimed, in some surprise. Blaek leant down and whispered something else. "You _didn't!_" The Twins straightened and shrugged. Shrina glanced at Ysmet, flushing a little. "Um… perhaps we should all repair to the stables… I think I know _why_ the fellow you're waiting to meet is… delayed…"

Earlier, returning to the stableyard with their expensive carrots, the Twins had noticed a suspicious, skulking personage. The slight fellow wore oilskin trousers, was bare-chested and bereft of shoes… clearly, Atha'an Miere! As he crept along the wall, a shaft of light from an upstairs window flickered across his face, momentarily lighting his shifty features… and the eyes of the Twins had narrowed in recognition. Without needing to discuss the matter further, they silently drew their blades and split-up, slipping soundlessly forward to take their prey, the bucket of carrots left for later. This was something that needed tending to even before their beloved horses!

_Raab thought that he was being clever. There were many of his people in Illian, and though they rarely went ashore, this Inn was uncomfortably close to the docks… there might be Takana amongst them, and meeting someone from his former Clan was a sure way to end-up floating face-down in a canal! So, whilst keeping his appointment with his current benefactor, he elected to do so by entering the Inn via the stables. He would reconnoitre the common-room through a rear window, before entering. Just in case. It had seemed like a good idea at the time…_

_The scowling fellow with straight, dark hair who materialised from the shadows in front of him was clearly not one of the Sea Folk… but seemed to like him as little as they did, if the drawn sword in his hand was any indication! Raab turned to flee, and was more than a little surprised to find essentially the _same_ blade-brandishing fellow, blocking his path. How had he moved so fast? Raab whirled, deciding that a headlong flight through the common-room was a better course than scaling the wall – but no, the first swordsman was still there… there were two of them! And they looked exactly the same! A pair of what felt like very sharp blades touched his neck on either side, and Raab raised his tattooed hands in surrender. The dagger tucked into his sash was whisked away, his arms were seized, and the Atha'an Miere renegade found himself pushed roughly up against the rear wall of an empty stall and held in place. The scowling pair eyed him darkly, their sword points pressing against his bare chest… Raab, on the point of being doubly stabbed, took care not to breathe too deeply… he thought that his twin accosters looked vaguely familiar… but where had he seen them before?_

_"I do not possess much coin," he stammered, "but you strangely-similar Shorebound are welcome to what little I have!" The identical swordsmen snorted in unison. They spoke, in what sounded like Mayener accents…_

_"We know who you are," said one._

_"We have seen your face before," added the other._

_"You are the dishonest one called 'Raab.' "_

_"The renegade who got our friend into trouble."_

_"Your… friend?" Raab choked._

_"Jabal! He is a good friend of ours-"_

_"-and often-times lends fresh shirts to us-"_

_"(-since we are of a size-)"_

_"-when we have none clean!"_

_"Jabal?" Raab gulped, "Jabal din Sudim Lionfish?"_

_"Aye!" agreed the one on the left, "even he!"_

_"The very same!" confirmed the one on the right._

_Raab groaned. Now he knew where he had seen this dangerous pair before! Tar Valon! They had chased him, had they not? Of all the accursed bad luck!_

Up in the hayloft, Raab shifted uncomfortably, his wrists and ankles tied in the small of his back, his wadded silk scarf stuffed into his mouth and held in place with a length of twine. His be-ringed ears listened intently. The twin Warders, after dragging him up here and securely hog-tying him, had then engaged in strange, nonsensical talk with their munching land-horses (odd customs, these Shorebound! did they expect the creatures to speak _back_ to them?) and then seemed to have gone away… but what of that strange song he had heard? Followed by running feet? It had been quiet for a time, but now he heard approaching footsteps. And voices. He strained his ears further. Melodic, female tones, with a west-coast accent, perhaps..?

"Well, you couldn't let the sneaking fellow go on his way, not after nearly getting poor Jabal executed, but why in the waves did you tie him up in the hayloft?"

"We were going to tell you, Shrina-"

"-_after_ Mosk and Merk had their carrots-"

"-and leave his fate in your hands-"

"-but the foolish Gleeman interrupted us!"

"I did not! I only sang you a nice song, about peas!" Another west-coast accent, a voice he recognised. The Gleeman! The voices were beneath the hayloft now. Raab shifted his position, trying to squint down through the dusty wooden boards. What in the Eight Oceans was going on? Why were things always so much more _complicated_ on land than at sea? He should go back to his Clan, say he was very sorry, and take his chances… assuming that he wasn't fed to the sharks, a few decades spent as a bilge-boy surely wouldn't be _too_ bad?

"_Peas?_ Why are you singing of vegetables to my lads, Roth?"

"Never mind that! Raab is in _my_ employ, _I_ shall decide his fate, thank-you!"

Raab's eyes widened. That last speaker had a cultured, Ebou Dari accent – his benefactor, the Lady Ysmet! _She_ would not let the scowling swordsmen cut out his liver and feed it to the gulls, as they had threatened! Or would she? Surely not before he had built her ship for her, using his knowledge to design her a genuine Sea Folk hull? Hope springs eternal in fools and villains… and Raab would have been the first to admit that he was both!

The scowling twins appeared, cut his bonds, and hustled Raab down the ladder, sitting him forcefully upon a bale of straw. Raab eyed the assembled Shorebound nervously. In addition to the Lady Ysmet and the preening Gleeman she consorted with, a tall, red-headed young woman in a riding-dress as green as her eyes, her skin almost as dark as his own. Raab spat out the scarf and licked his dry lips.

"Are you going to kill me?" he asked the Warders. They looked at each other, then at the red-head. _She_ must be their Aes Sedai! Raab moaned softly.

"Are we?" the identical Gaidin asked her.

The Lady Ysmet scowled, and eyed the Aes Sedai... who eyed _him_. She wasn't the short one with the yellow hair or the pale one with the ringlets… had he seen her in Tar Valon also? Raab could not remember… just his cousin Jabal trying to kill him (and very nearly succeeding!) then the two brothers chasing him… taking a running-dive off the shining walls and swimming the Erinin… the charts he had wanted to sell, up in flames… it had all been very confused. A bad day! The City of the Witches… he would never go _there_ again, if he could help it...

The Aes Sedai shrugged apologetically at the Lady Ysmet. "I defer to your wishes," she declared, before scowling at Raab, "but I wouldn't trust this outcast as far as I could throw him!"

The Lady Ysmet sniffed. "Oh, I don't _trust_ him… but I _do_ need him." She scowled at Raab, fingering her sword-hilt. "For the time being, at least."

Raab breathed a sigh of relief. The Shorebound Windfinder noticed, and smiled a rather feral smile. "Very well. I release him to you, and apologise if my lads overstepped their bounds…" The twin Mayeners frowned and the Aes Sedai smiled at them. "Don't pout! It was very loyal of you to uphold Jabal's honour, I am sure he would be happy to know you threatened and intimidated the renegade who almost got his head chopped off for him!" The twins ceased frowning and nodded, in unison.

"_Peas!_" muttered the Gleeman. They turned their resumed frowns upon him.

Raab gulped as the Aes Sedai loomed over him. "But, _after_ you have assisted the Lady Ysmet with her ship-building… you, my pigeon, are going to take a little flight north, to a particular island… you have been there before, and should be able to find your way. In return for sparing your misspent life, there is a letter I wish delivered to a friend of mine. At the library of a certain tower, the colour of which need not be specified! And you had best watch out for her Warder when you do so – I believe that the two of you are well acquainted!"

"But of course, Windfinder!" Raab stammered, "anything to oblige!" If she thought he would ever go to Tar Valon again, she was a bigger fool than he!

"Oh, you _shall_ oblige me… _swear_ that you will deliver the letter I give you!"

"By the Light, I swear it!" Raab felt that there might be a catch… there usually was, he had heard, with Aes Sedai, but he did not know what it could be. The way she was smiling at him did not bode well, however. Like a silverpike baring its teeth at a fat grunter…

"I shall _hold_ you to that…" The Aes Sedai raised a hand and Raab shuddered, as a cold wave passed swiftly through his body, from the tight curls on his head down to his bare toes – she was using the One Power! On _him!_ "I shall not specify what I have just done to you, but it would be best not to ignore this duty… I shall not say _why_, however – I think that you would rather not know!"

Raab nodded, enthusiastically. He certainly did not wish to know, and found that he had had a sudden change of heart – if the Aes Sedai told him to sail the Dead Sea and deliver a letter to the Blight itself, then he would do so!

"When you have delivered the letter, you may consider yourself released from your oath. And _only_ then!"

Watching Ysmet lead the shivering Atha'an Miere fellow away, Shrina felt a little guilty… but only a little. Anyone who feared Aes Sedai as much as Raab clearly did, would certainly rather not know any more than this, she was sure… so she did not trouble to mention that she had only Delved him… it was best to let Raab use his no-doubt fervent imagination. Besides, she could not justify the expense of sending a courier to the Tower, so this Sea Folk renegade would do just as well. Too bad if he ran into Jabal – serve him right for trying to sell charts that did not belong to him!

* * *

_"As bound to the Horn are they – so sworn to the Hunt are we,_

_Age to come from Ages past, my Hunter's Oath shall hold me fast,_

_until my thread is cut at last – from Time's great Tapestry._

_For bound to the Horn are they – now sworn to the Hunt are we!"_

The drums and cymbals had died-down a little for the Oath and several thousand voices turned the words into a sustained rumble, echoing against the columns surrounding the Square of Tammuz… and then fell silent. And that was that. It was done. The Oath had been taken. Shrina lowered her raised right hand and smiled triumphantly at her Warders, who lowered theirs also. They glanced at her.

"We are now Hunters for the Horn!" she told them, rather unnecessarily. Shrina had considered herself such for most of her life, of course… but now – _now_, it was official!

The next morning dawned bright and clear for Shrina and the Twins. The Causeway of the Northern Star that traversed the swamplands which protected Illian better than any wall or moat ever could, was largely bereft of travellers this early – just a lone Peddler leading a pack-mule some distance ahead of them, and yet another Gleeman (she had seen more of them in the past week than in the rest of her life put-together!) going the other way on foot, tugging a lame horse along behind him. A short, pale fellow, he looked angry, and well he might… he had missed out on several days of the festivities, after all, and must bitterly resent the lost coin.

But Shrina had her own problems. She was feeling rather delicate. Too much feasting and dancing the night before, and _definitely_ too much drinking! She wished she was still in the large and comfortable bed in the best room that Nieda always reserved for Aes Sedai, a warm Warder on either side of her, but had been the one to insist they leave this early – getting a head-start on the other hung-over Hunters! Still, Shrina wished she had changed her mind about this. None of the rest of those who had sworn the Oath had had the Horn hanging over _their_ head in a mystical vision, after all! But one should not go back on one's orders, it set a bad example to the Gaidin – who had been up early, raring to go. She suspected they were rather tired of Illian, and of a certain Gleeman in particular. She wished her head was not pounding quite so badly, though.

Shrina scowled. If only Ellyth had been in the next room, to give her Healing as she so often had before… but no matter. She hoped her friend had found out something useful about the paperweight-_ter'angreal_ at least. Hopefully, she was safe back in the Tower… probably still waiting for Renn to emerge from the catacombs beneath the Library… but when Shrina had awoken with a pounding head and a sick stomach, how she had wished it otherwise!

"Ten silver marks," muttered Aebel ruefully, under his breath. Blaek shook his head and made a 'tutting' sound.

"I _told_ you not to mention that again," snapped Shrina, through gritted teeth, then squeezed her eyes shut. Oh! She would abjure all wines and ales and spirits until her Hunt was concluded, she decided. A noble sacrifice indeed!

"Gleemen!" the Twins hissed, under their breaths.

"Honestly! Why don't you like Roth? You know he is my oldest, dearest friend!" Shrina sighed. "What have you got against him?"

"He is too full of himself," Aebel answered.

"He is arrogant… and a show-off," added Blaek.

"He's a bloody Gleeman! They're _supposed_ to be like that!" Shrina winced. She really shouldn't raise her voice, but talking took her mind off her morning head a little. "You two sad-faced flounders are just too grim and serious to enjoy a Gleeman's songs and tales, that is all."

"Not true, Shrina."

"We like stories, Shrina."

"Like what? What stories do you like? I can't readily think of any…"

"Stories like Aldor and Baltus seeking the Eye of the World."

"Or Chanu and Dravid searching for the Tree of Life."

Shrina snorted. A'vron swivelled his ears toward her and she patted him soothingly on the head, wishing that someone could likewise soothe her own aching skull! "Really! Don't you like any tales that are not about _two brothers_ going on a quest together and fighting the Shadow, side-by-side?" she enquired, pointedly.

"No," responded the Twins, "we do not."

"You _do_ realise that you're being rather _obvious_, don't you?" Shrina accused.

"We do not care if we are obvious, Shrina."

"We like what we like, Shrina."

"We like stories about brothers who have adventures-"

"-and battle together against the Shadow-"

"-and you, Shrina, we like _you!_" Aebel nodded, firmly.

"Indeed. And that is about it," Blaek added. They did not trouble to mention their horses, which went without saying, naturally.

"And we do _not_ like the Gleeman!" the Twins concluded.

"How do you _do_ that?" Shrina demanded, "I've always bloody wondered! How do you say things at _exactly the same time_ like that?"

"We are not telling, Shrina."

"It is just for us twins to know, Shrina."

A pause, then they added, as they so often did, in unison;

"Sorry, Shrina!"

"Aaah!" shouted Shrina in exasperation, immediately wishing she had not, clutching at her brow. Ahead of them, the Peddler glanced back, curious. Shrina sighed. And felt the urge to stick-up for her childhood sweetheart some more.

"You are being unfair, boys. Roth tells the old tales well… I heard the end of this super story I'd never heard before… it was all about a giant Hero slaughtering heaps of Shadowspawn with a shouting axe or some such, he was standing on a big pile of skulls and laughing at the Dark One's minions… you would have loved it!"

"If it was being told by the Gleeman-"

"-Roth Blucha, then we would not!"

"But the Hero, _he_ had a brother! Though I don't think they were twins, like Aldor and Baltus were, I think the giant was the other one's big brother – literally! And then the blind younger brother on the wolf carried his dead brother's axe off the battlefield, I think…"

"We do not like stories where only _one_ brother dies, Shrina."

"They must _both_ die, not just one of them, Shrina."

"Well, I expect the other brother died later – Heroes always do, it is _so_ depressing! They never seem to live to a ripe old age and get to dandle their grandchildren on their knees…"

"It sounds like a silly story," the Twins muttered. In unison.

"There you go again! It's eerie. And you are so hard to please! Roth has a lovely singing voice, you know!"

Aebel shrugged. "Roth is not a proper Gleeman – he will not sing a nice song like 'The Wind that Shakes the Willow' but only wants to perform his _own_ songs…"

"Like the foolish Horn-Hunting song, which nearly caused a riot in the Inn!" Blaek added, darkly.

"His songs are all scurrilous and bawdy-"

"-as though he is a painted Court-fool-"

"-or a silly Jester, with bells upon his cap."

"Don't tell him that," spluttered Shrina, "he _hates_ Court-fools and Jesters!"

"Then we will tell him next time we see him, Shrina."

"We will say, 'hello Roth-the-Jester,' to him, Shrina."

"Be fair! He has more wit than a Jester!"

"Perhaps."

"Slightly."

The Twins thought about it for a bit. "Why does he not just become a Bard?" they enquired.

"Don't say that to him _either_, he hates Bards even more!"

"But you said he was a Bard, Shrina?"

"Or that he used to be a Bard, Shrina?"

"I said that he 'barded.' Or that sometimes he 'goes barding.' It is _not_ the same as being a Bard."

There was silence for a moment, just the muted clopping of hooves on the ancient, flinty causeway. Then, suspiciously;

"What is 'barded' Shrina?"

"What is 'barding' Shrina?"

"It is Roth's term for… what he does… he wears fine clothes and puts his nose in the air and struts about some Palace strumming his harp, if he can manage to talk his way past the guards… then he meets a pretty Noblewoman with lots of money who is stupid enough to believe that Roth's temporarily charming and witty ways are representative of his true character… or that his fine, well-turned calves or handsome profile or graceful dancing are indicative of… stop glaring at me like that!"

The Twins stopped glaring at Shrina like that, albeit reluctantly.

"Where was I?" she muttered.

"Roth-the-Jester-"

"-going barding."

"Oh yes… not much more to tell really… anyway, before you know it, Roth is sharing the silly rich Noblewoman's bed every night, doing… well, the sort of things that we get up to in _our_ bed at night…"

"Yes, Shrina!" agreed the Twins, with some enthusiasm.

"At least, on those nights when you _haven't_ gone out drinking with Jabal Gaidin instead!"

"That was over a month ago, Shrina!"

"You promised that you would not speak of it again!"

"I did?" Shrina's head was feeling a little better… perhaps it was the fresh air.

"Myrelle Sedai lets Nuhel Gaidin go out drinking once every week!"

"Myrelle Sedai does not make Nuhel Gaidin's life a misery just because-"

"Alright! I won't mention it again! But in return for tooting on his flute and doing the other thing… well, at least the Gleeman gets bought some nice clothes! Roth lives with the poor girl as a sort of male paramour for about a fortnight, usually, then they have a huge argument about what a pig he is and it's all over! _Barding!_" Shrina chuckled. "Though I think he and Ysmet might actually go the distance…"

"Why, Shrina?" the Twins enquired, in spite of themselves.

"Because it's lasted several months between them and since she's put every copper into building a ship to go exploring in, she hasn't got any bloody money! It _must_ be love!" The Twins considered this, scowled, and gave vent to their feelings;

"You _still_ should not have lent the foolish-"

"-Gleeman _ten silver marks_, Shrina!"

The foolish Gleeman in question had got up early to see them off…

_"So this is the famous sword, eh?" Roth commented, eyeing the Saldaean blade slung over Shrina's pommel. Shrina drew the sword. There seemed to be writing engraved along the blade. Roth leaned closer. Shrina held the sword steady so that he could read. His lips moved, his eyebrows raising significantly._

_"Yes I know, it is a little over-the-top, but dear Wakime always was a little over-the-top. Even though he can barely see over the top of a table!" Shrina sighed gustily. "Sometimes I wonder if I did the right thing, refusing his suit..? He would have made a fine Warder at least, though probably not a very good husband… a little on the short side, but… extremely attentive!"_

_Roth frowned. "Did you say… Wakime? As in… Lord Alven of House Wakime?"_

_"Yes. What of it?"_

_"Oh… nothing…"_

_Shrina could feel the Twins glaring at her and smiled sweetly over her shoulder. "It is alright, my sadly sulking pretties! I do not regret turning the fellow down, I am perfectly happy with my two fine doves!" The Twins glanced at each other._

_"We are not _doves_, Shrina," they muttered. But at least they stopped glaring._

_"It is a figure of speech." Shrina turned back. "What do you think of the verse, Roth? It is your area of expertise after all, my talented Gleeman."_

_Roth looked at her seriously. "I think that it is the finest love poem I have ever read," he commented, equally seriously. And he meant it – after all, _he_ was the poet! But if he had only known at the time that the object of Wakime's desire, described to him in great and lurid detail, was Shrina, his first-love, his darling girl from Falme… the diminutive Saldaean Lord had never mentioned her name or anything about her not purely physical, other than that she was Aes Sedai… he had not realised!_

_Roth turned away a moment, pretending to cough, hiding the fierce scowl that momentarily swept over his features… That little lecher! To describe his Shrina in such… warm terms! How dare he! And then, nearly getting him killed with his reckless behaviour, up in the Blight… lying to him about the sheer magnitude of those Worms! He had thought them the size of… well, worms. Not bigger than bloody barns! Almost depriving the world of the great talent of Roth Blucha, Gleeman!_

He wanted me to write a song about him, didn't he? I'll write him a song – I'll write him such a song that… that he'll never show his face in public again!

_Roth ceased scowling, turned and smiled up at Shrina winningly._

_"Shrina, would you lend your devoted childhood friend a mere ten silver marks? I'll give it back to you the next time I see you… I promise, faithfully…"_

_Shrina scowled. "That's what you always say and you never do!"_

_"But I don't have any money, I pay for my keep with songs and stories… what need has a Gleeman for coin, when he has something even better – talent!"_

_"That's your problem! What do you even need it for? It's for ridiculous clothes, or some sort of a stupid musical instrument, isn't it?"_

_"No! I swear it isn't." Roth did a wiggly thing with his fingers, getting it completely wrong, to boot! "Watcher's Oath!"_

_"Your family weren't Watchers, Roth, you can't say the Watcher's Oath if you're not a Watcher over the Waves like me and grandpa!" objected Shrina, scandalised. "Your ma didn't await the Hawkwing's Return, she was a fishmonger!"_

_"Then I shall say the Fishmonger's Oath," declared Roth, solemnly, before resuming his whining beggar's tones. "Please? Only ten?"_

_"Roth! I don't have a huge amount of coin you know, they cut my stipend and I lost some silver in a dice game and…"_

_"Please, Shrina?" Roth's big green eyes were fixed on hers…_

_"…and the Twins got in a stupid argument with the Captain on our riverboat coming south, like they always do when Tairens are about, so he put us off at Aringil, refusing to return half our fare and then threatened to call the Town Watch because they hung him over the side and dipped his head in the river…"_

_"Pretty-please? With honey on the top?" Shrina felt her resolve crumbling._

_"…and I don't know how far I'll have to go to find the Horn of Valere and everything has got so much more expensive and… stop looking at me like that!"_

_"Plee-ease?"_

_"Aah! You never change Roth, do you know that? Thank the Creator I went off to the White Tower instead of marrying you!" Roth blinked, confused._

_"But Shrina, I had already run away from home and trotted off down the road to become a Gleeman a whole year before you even left for the Tower…"_

_"Abandoning me!"_

_"Abandoning..? Shrina, your grandfather chased me up the high street with a hatchet after he caught us together! Right in front of the whole town! They were all laughing and pointing! I had to leave Falme or he'd have chopped my bloody head off!"_

_"Yes, well… that is a fair point I suppose. Grandpa always did have a bit of a temper..."_

_"Um… Shrina? The ten marks..?"_

_Shrina sighed. "If you tell me what you need it for and if I approve, then you may have it." Behind her, the Twins rolled their eyes at each other. "Stop that," she snapped, without turning around, "who controls the purse-strings around here?"_

_"You do, Shrina," the Twins muttered, neglecting to add the word 'unfortunately' though it seemed to hang in the air even so. They glared at Roth spitefully… he smiled back at them, fluttering the patches on his cloak a little, before turning to Shrina, a hand over his heart. The Twins walked their horses out of the stableyard, shaking their heads, fingering their sword-hilts, muttering under their breath. Roth summoned his best honest expression from somewhere deep within him and proceeded to lie with greater facility than he ever had before! Even to Ysmet!_

_"Very well, Shrina, here is why I need the money; I mean to write a nice song about the bold exploits of your friend Lord Wakime, who I also have the honour to be acquainted with… an excellent fellow, with fine dress-sense! The idea was to hand copies of the song out to all of my Gleeman friends who would then sing it everywhere, thus making noble Wakime even more famous than he already is. I think a few hundred copies should do it, but alas, I cannot afford all of that paper and ink. Whatever am I to do?"_

_Shrina looked at Roth suspiciously. Roth smiled back, his nicest smile._

_"That Ysmet girl," said Shrina, slowly, "is she a better kisser than me?"_

_Roth glanced over his shoulder, but Ysmet was still drowsily occupying their bed the last he'd saw. He lowered his voice a little, just in case._

_"Nowhere near! No woman kisses like Shrina Tolamani! Men think that they have died and are resting in the Hand of the Creator when Shrinalla kisses them! Just one taste of the luscious lips of gorgeous Shrina and the world dissolves into-"_

_"Yes, alright, you can have the bloody money! Since it should make dear Wakime happy… I did not know you even knew each other? It is a small world… But when I find the Horn of Valere, you are to write a song about me also, and the Twins as well – a good one… and tasteful! None of your smutty lyrics about blossoms and bosoms and sighs and thighs!" Shrina dug into her money pouch, scowling._

_Roth performed his best bow, fluttering the patches on his cloak exuberantly. "It shall be as you command, beauteous Queen of the Kisses, exquisite Empress of the-"_

_"Bah! They should make flaming Gleemen take the First Oath against lying!"_

_"Ah, Shrina my lovely, but that would make for some _very_ dull stories!"_

* * *

**Part II: Seleisin**

Arachnae Kirikil rocked slowly back and forth in the corner of the Inn's private dining-room, the muted click of her knitting needles providing a counterpoint to the occasional crackle from the fireplace, as the wood was rather damp. She would have to speak to the Innkeeper about that… perhaps she would need to set another painful example. The Innkeeper, his wife, the maids, even the stable-boy… all Friends of the Dark. It was good, to have Friends in low places. Provided they knew that their place was lower than hers. The Innkeeper had personally fetched down the old rocking-chair from the attic and was doing his best to be obliging, as he well knew how high she stood. At least, he did _now_, though had behaved as though they were equals at first, thinking her a Merchant only. Equals! Her example had put paid to that notion… now, the man was consummately terrified of her. As well he should be.

Arachnae (who had not always had that name) frowned slightly, pale brows drawing down over her dark, gimlet eyes. Eyes that missed nothing. Eyes like those of a small bird, a wren perhaps, an impression enhanced by the pointed beak of a nose, set deep in a lined, round face, her grey hair cut short and curling about her skull. Terror… such a useful instrument for imposing one's will on others. She had been terrified herself, once – a strange, giddy sensation, experienced only that one time in her very long life, but once was enough. Terrified… but also, at the same time… elated. Exalted. Ecstatic. Re-swearing her Oaths, at _that_ place… the great chasm falling away beneath her feet, its unquiet depths roiling with molten fire… the streaking ribbons of virulent cloud striating the dreadful sky over her head… the dark breath of the Great Lord, seeping from his once-sundered prison, suffusing her very being… Arachnae shuddered, slightly. There was nowhere quite like Shayol Ghul, and once you had been there, well… everything else paled into insignificance.

Light-forsworn Kings, Shadow-sworn Queens, soul-sold High Lords and Ladies, even Aes Sedai of the Black Ajah (her wrinkled lip curled slightly) it did not matter what station you held, openly or in secret… as far as Arachnae was concerned, to stand at the edge of the Pit and feel the presence of the Great Lord in your bones… _that_ was the ultimate mark of status amongst Friends of the Dark... and you had either been there, or you had not.

Arachnae glanced up for a moment, the knitting needles gripped in her small fingers continuing to move deftly, a hint of expectation in her gaze as those dark eyes moved to the window. She could sense Ranim arriving at the village outskirts now, a faint knot of cold, suppressed emotions in the back of her mind. She had felt the young man's approach for several weeks as he moved nearer, travelling many leagues each day, returning from the gathering somewhere to the far north that she had not been able to attend personally.

Arachnae had made her excuses to Ba'alzamon, in the strange place that was (and yet was not) a dream, and though he might have severely punished another for declining his summons, he knew what she was about and had seemed to approve. Had he not approved, she would surely have known it, when she awoke! Had she woken at all. Of late, there were many of her ilk receiving their orders in that disconcerting dream-place, and not just from he with the terrible flames of perdition flickering in his eye-sockets and mouth, the very avatar of the Great Lord of the Dark… he who had first begun to speak to her more than a year ago. Shai'tan stirred in his prison, reaching out to touch the world again, and the Chosen walked abroad in the land. Those foolish enough to doubt their power or provenance were soon given stern reminders of their lowly place in the scheme of things.

So, Arachnae had sent her representative in her place, to hear and observe, and now Ranim was on his way back, to report. Just as well he could sense her location as well as she his, for this tiny village at the foot of the peaks was not somewhere either had troubled to visit before. But that was one of the many advantages of the bond.

Of course, Ranim was not Arachnae's Warder, anymore than she was Aes Sedai – she felt contempt at the very thought – but the bonding weave was one of the many useful tricks she had learnt at the Tower, a very long time ago now, and it had often proved useful to hold such a connection to a personal assassin. She had many other killers in her pay, of course, but always made a point of having a particularly skilled murderer attached to her in this way… and Ranim was the most gifted she had ever bonded in her service, though only nineteen years old. No, now twenty…

Her time at the White Tower… an unhappy time, if necessary, with but one exception… the Library. Arachnae well-recalled the Tower Library… she had not worn novice-white for very long, had hated almost every moment of her time there, and had had to leave Tar Valon rather abruptly after killing the other girl… but she did remember the Library with fondness. In the dark, winter evenings, her odious chores complete, she had often sat silently, poring over many an ancient tome… quietly reading and memorising what little knowledge of the Shadow and Dark Prophecy that was not securely locked away… and she had felt oddly content. Why, there were times when she had almost been _happy_ in that comforting, cavernous space, lined with tall stacks of books on every topic imaginable. Arachnae had always enjoyed knowledge for its own sake. Certain knowledge, at least.

Some of the Librarians in their brown-fringed Shawls had smiled approvingly at the studious young novice, lost in her endeavours – though their approval might have waned had they taken a closer interest in what she studied – and had perhaps thought her destined for their own Ajah… well, that was all _they_ knew!

Arachnae supposed that had she elected to stay and test for the Ring and Shawl, had she identified herself to certain Sisters with certain signs, then she might well have joined the Brown Ajah, on the day of her Raising… while later that night, swearing to the Black Ajah at another, more secretive ceremony. But Arachnae had never had the least interest in being Aes Sedai. Like many Friends of the Dark, her greatest fear, but for her terror at the power and touch of the Great Lord, had always been in her own mortality. She well knew that, with the Shawl, came the Oaths.

Arachnae was not stupid, and had realised early on what the Binding Rod did. So few others seemed to, and yet the facts were there, if one had the wits to look for them! Merely comparing the ages of Aes Sedai before the Trolloc Wars with those of their less fortunate Sisters after, those bound to the Three Oaths, told all one needed to know… but Initiates of the White Tower did not care to discuss their _age_. Fools!

Though she had always held her tongue in the Library, Arachnae wondered distantly if they still enforced the silly rule about having to leave and not return for a day after being 'shushed' three times? Probably, the Tower never got rid of any of its rules that became customs that became traditions, they just added more on top until those beneath who were forced to live by them could barely breathe. Which was exactly why Arachnae had decided to leave after six months, and let the world be her school instead. But, despite her long-abiding hatred for the Institution that lay at the heart of Tar Valon, Arachnae always remembered the Library with fondness, as the one place in the whole of the White Tower that she had not entirely detested.

Still, her months as a novice had given Arachnae priceless knowledge… spending her free-time, when she did not have to attend foolish classes, wandering the parts of the White Tower where there were most likely to be Aes Sedai channelling, idly glancing at their weaves as she walked past… she only ever needed to see something once to have it down perfectly, and the complex, interwoven threads of _saidar_ had always come as naturally to Arachnae as the complicated knitting-patterns she favoured. In fact, when she melded the flows, channelled Air and Water, Spirit, Fire and Earth, she always thought of it more as pearling and stitching…

But call them what you will, the weaves… _they_ were why Arachnae went to Tar Valon. The leader of her Circle in Mar Haddon, on sending her, had approved of a possible new addition to the Black Ajah… which was all _that_ long-dead fool knew! She had never had the slightest intention of attaining the Shawl.

After half a year of silent, careful observation, of studiously ignoring the gibes of the other novices, poking-fun at the quiet girl who never wished to talk or make friends or even go to a dance, but simply spent her freedays wandering about the Tower, staring at things… well, Arachnae decided that she had learned all she could. With great relief, she had run away from the Tower, as many an unhappy novice had before her. But only _after_ carefully targeting and murdering her least-favourite fellow novice, the beautiful daughter of one of Harad Dakar's First Families.

Arachnae did not care for Noblewomen, now or then, and this had at least something to do with her choice of that particular girl – but also, because _she_ was the one who had begun the practice of referring to her as 'the odd little owl,' a cruel name, swiftly taken-up by many another novice, since Arachnae was rather short and round, was often seen walking about the halls, staring owlishly at the Aes Sedai. _Especially_ if a Sister happened to be channelling… did she think that she could see the weaves? Of course she could not, she was only a novice, like them, that odd little owl, daughter of the lowly Thatcher in some flyspeck, swamp-bounded village!

Well, the odd little owl from the Mirk had a secret or two, hidden up her sleeve... Arachnae still felt pleasure as she recollected the shocked, horrified look in the Hardani girl's eyes as the dark blade had gone in, just beneath the breastbone, angled upwards… just as she had been taught. A slim black knife that had appeared in her hand from nowhere, woven from Air and Fire, decorated with ravens. It had not been difficult to do, and had hardly been her first murder. Besides mere revenge, Arachnae supposed that she had just wanted to give the other novices something to remember her by. It was not as though she had signed her _real_ name in the novice book! She had written that – as well as everything else – with her left hand, just in case.

Arachnae had little trouble slipping out of Tar Valon that night, a harbourmaster Darkfriend sneaked her onto a riverboat going south and a ship-captain Darkfriend hid her in the hold until they reached Tear. It was good, to have Friends. And the world lay before her… the roads safe to travel once more, now that the more than two centuries of unrest that followed the War of a Hundred Years had finally died-down, the internicine feuding between the nations forged from the ashes of the Hawkwing's Empire finally at an end as they contented themselves with the bounds of their own borders, no longer seeking to quite so readily encroach on their neighbours. Arachnae - who had been taught by Aes Sedai who actually remembered the High King's twenty-year seige of Tar Valon - appeared old, but certainly did not look her age. But then, she had never held the Binding Rod.

A tap on the door. Arachnae was already holding the Source – which she always did whilst knitting – and prepared a nasty surprise just in case, though her wards had already told her who it was outside. She glanced up enquiringly as the Innkeeper cautiously opened the door. The skinny, balding fellow blinked nervously at the old lady in the rocking chair, clicking her knitting-needles together, regarding her with an open fear that belied her outward appearance. Arachnae smiled at him, and the man flinched slightly, lowering his gaze.

"Master Kadere to see you, Dread Mistress," he muttered breathlessly, before ducking out of sight. He had tried calling her 'Great Lady' after she set her example, and she had asked him whether he thought her one of the Chosen? Clearly, he was as terrified of her as though she might have been, but Arachnae knew her place. Even her name in certain circles, 'the Little Spider…' she would have preferred simply 'The Spider' but if Moghedien was free again, as the others seemed to be… well, it would not be a good idea to attract her ire. Arachnae was content with her place in the grand scheme of things, and others should be too. As long as the Innkeeper understood that she stood as high above him as the Chosen did above her, then that was enough. Really, she preferred working with Friends who lived in cities, they at least tended to be more sophisticated.

Hadnan Kadere stepped carefully into the room, moving with deft assurance for so heavy-set a man. His tilted eyes above a hooked, Saldaean nose, regarded Arachnae with caution, though less-so than the swarthy, broken-nosed wagon-driver who followed him unwillingly into the room, closing the door behind him.

"Laers here, and the others, they just returned..." Kadere explained.

Arachnae held Kadere's gaze for a long moment, but somehow, he managed to not blink. Though he did swallow a little, feeling sweat begin to creep across his brow. This terrible old woman had that affect on him… really, he was not sure who was worse, she or the dark-robed monster in the mask who had lately begun to visit his dreams… a finch could starve on the difference. And a man could die.

"Mistress," Kadere added, belatedly. And grudgingly. No, Ba'alzamon, if it was truly him, was worse, of course… but he ruled over his dreams. His nightmares. While the Kirikil woman was sitting right in front of him, rocking slowly back and forth. And Kadere was very much aware that at the moment, he was wide-awake.

Arachnae smiled. She still had all of her teeth – somewhat at odds with her appearance – and this only made the pleasant-seeming expression worse, somehow.

"Did they now, Hadnan, my petal? And I had not expected them yet."

It was a strangely warm, grandmotherly voice, but those dark, placid eyes seemed to burn a little in their depths. Kadere felt more sweat breaking-out on his face, and almost reached for his handkerchief.

Arachnae turned her attention to Laers, the wagon-driver, lowering her knitting to her lap and beckoning. "Come closer, dear... where I can see you properly." Unwillingly, Laers moved to stand before the rocking-chair, whilst Kadere took up a position in the corner of the room, arms crossed.

"Well, my boy?" enquired Arachnae, "why back so soon?"

Laers swallowed. He wished that the Trollocs hadn't eaten Divid, it should have been _that_ fool standing here in front of this dreadful old witch instead of him!

Mouth dry, he began to speak...

* * *

Ranim half-led, half-dragged his lathered, exhausted horse into the stables, and watched, dispassionately, as it dropped to its knees and then its side, chest heaving. He doubted that it would rise again. The bond gave him more stamina than he would have thought possible, the ability to stay awake and active long after most men would have collapsed. The same could not be said for his steed. If it died, then that would make the third horse he had ridden to its death on his way back down south. Ranim did not care. There was very little left in the world that he did care about. This was one of the reasons why he was so good at what he did.

The stable-lad was a mute, or perhaps he had just been left incapable of speech by the Mistress, setting one of her examples... Ranim was not sure. But the way the youth pointed towards the barn, making a gobbling sound, his eyes wide with terror, told him what waited there. So, before going to make his report, Ranim went to the barn. He skirted numerous large wagons on the way, guards and drivers huddled in blankets beneath the wheels and beds… both wagons and men those of the Mistress, who often posed as a Merchant, as well as those of the Saldaean fellow, Kadere. Ranim presumed that he was still alive… the fellow was a survivor, one of those Friends with the skill of feeding others to his superiors, when mistakes were made and examples needed to be set. Though he might not yet know it, Kadere was now deep in thrall to a different Mistress, by all accounts. Ranim did not envy the man.

In addition to a Myrddraal, clad in shimmering scales of dark armour and a darker cloak, the barn contained a stocky, greying Warder of the White Tower. Ranim eyed them both. The Myrddraal said nothing, just looked at him eyelessly with the same loathing it had reserved for the Gaidin, who smiled mockingly.

"Hello Ranim," greeted Tomas, adding, "have you found the Song yet?"

Ranim scowled slightly. Not so much at the off-colour jest, but because Tomas always confused him. He might be a Friend of the Dark first and foremost, but he was still a Warder… the man should have been above making jokes.

"What are you doing here, Tomas?" demanded Ranim.

"Just passing through, on my way south. I have a message for your Mistress. From _mine_." Tomas briefly held up a sealed, waxed packet, then nodded disparagingly at the Myrddraal. "You should meet with these _things_ out in the woods. Not everyone in this village is a Friend, I imagine. Someone might see it."

The Myrddraal gazed upon Tomas. He returned the gaze placidly, with no sign of nervousness, a hand resting idly on his sword-hilt.

"Have a care, worm…" the Myrddraal hissed, warningly. But did not draw its dark sword. Tomas's smile was unwavering. Ranim knew that the Warder's Black Ajah Mistress stood high indeed. The Myrddraal could not touch him. But Arachnae did not trust the Warder's Mistress any more than Ranim did… strange, that she had not been at the meeting. The other two Supreme Council witches were there, certainly…

Ranim eyed the Myrddraal. Its gaze did not perturb him overmuch either, though perhaps for different reasons. Not after some of the things he had seen recently. There were worse than Fades, north of the Blightborder. Much worse.

"Well?" Ranim asked it. He did not like Myrddraal any more than Tomas did. It was unfortunate, how necessary they were. For now. "What of the Aes Sedai?"

The Myrddraal looked on him with hatred. Ranim knew they loathed doing the bidding of Darkfriends, even his Mistress, who, before the Chosen woke, had been one of the most powerful female channellers sworn to the Shadow. Worthy of the title 'Dreadlord' though she had always scorned it. But it answered him reluctantly, because Ba'alzamon himself had told it to obey, its voice rustling like dead leaves.

"They are trapped, Firewoman and Swordman both. Twenty more Fists move through the Ways, one at a time, to avoid the accursed wind-of-death… two more days to gather... then, we will sweep the mountains clear until we find them."

"And the Draghkar?" Ranim demanded. The night before, curled beside a guttering fire, his head pillowed on his saddle, a bare blade clutched in his hand, Ranim had dreamt an odd dream. His Mistress had stood over him in the clearing, and told him of her plans. Some of them, at least… and she had then presented him with a flower, since it was his Name-day. He had forgotten himself, but she rarely overlooked such things, the small gestures alongside the large. On waking, Ranim was unsure if it had been real, if it had actually happened. Until he saw the black rose, each petal as dark as sin itself, lying beside his blanket.

The Myrddraal bared its teeth momentarily – it was unaccustomed to a human addressing it so – but Ranim's expectant gaze did not waver. Vaguely, the human reminded it of an Aielman, with that same intensity, that strange absence of fear.

"It will take time, to assemble so many," the Myrddraal answered, grudgingly.

"You know who my Mistress serves. Do not fail her. Or _him_."

The Myrddraal looked at Ranim for a long moment, well-conveying just how much it wished to kill him… then, it turned away, stepping with deadly, serpentine precision into the gloom at the rear of the barn. Ranim watched carefully, but saw no hint of what exactly it did, no riding of the shadows as in some dark tale of Lurks abroad in the night, told by a Gleeman… one moment it was there, the next, it simply was not. He shook his head, regretfully. _That_ was one skill he did not possess…

Tomas also eyed the darkness where the Myrddraal had disappeared. He shook his greying head slowly. "How do they bloody _do_ that?" he muttered.

* * *

Arachnae Kirikil frowned slightly. There was a lumpy bit sticking to the thread – she carefully picked it off with her long nails. The big wagon-driver, Laers, tried to focus on what he was saying, but the steady clicking of needles distracted and disconcerted him. His grandmother, who had thrown him out of the house at the age of eleven, after overhearing him chanting a prayer to the Great Lord in the basement, had always been knitting too – it raised bad memories.

"We found Bartok's body three days ago," Laers was saying, "looked like he was killed with a sword-thrust, though it was hard to tell from what remained. He'd been left under some rocks, but the Trollocs dug him out... they didn't leave much."

"Oh, they never do," Arachnae murmured, tugging some more wool from the ball at her feet. "Hungry monsters!" she added, with a soft chuckle.

Laers bit his lip and glanced at Kadere, who eyed him flatly, motioned for him to continue. "Some of them chased us – they caught Divid and a couple of the other lads!" The Mistress did not react to this, her eyes on her knitting. "If we'd gone any further into the mountains, we'd have all ended-up in their cookpots for sure," Laers added, repressing a shiver. In the corner, Kadere shook his head slowly. He was glad his orders were sending him elsewhere on the morrow. Tar Valon first, and then who knew where? But he had no wish to go up into mountains infested with Shadow-wrought, who often did not seem to be able to distinguish between humans who had forsaken the Light, and those who had not… or perhaps they just did not care. A shame about Bartok, though. Kadere had known he was almost certainly dead, as soon as the mirror-signals from the other side of the valley had abruptly ceased, half-way through. Phelan had been a useful fellow, in his time…

"Bartok was a fool," Arachnae declared, fixing her stare on Kadere as though reading his thoughts. He wouldn't put it past her to be able to – the old woman could do things he would not have thought possible. Some rumours said she could even fly through the night sky in a wicker basket, like something out of an old tale of witches, used to frighten badly-behaved children! "The stupid boy clearly gave himself away, or the young chit would not have had her guardian kill him..."

"Perhaps Taim betrayed him to the Aes Sedai?" Kadere speculated.

"Doubtful..." Arachnae shook her grey head slowly. She was not certain if Mazrim Taim was even a Friend... she had never seen him at any of the High Councils, certainly... that did not, of course, preclude him from being one of their number, but she thought it more likely that he was not. False Dragons, at least the major, notorious ones who could channel strongly, never were. Rather, they were often unwitting puppets of the Shadow, though like Guaire Amalasan, and Davian before him, they often kept low company.

"But possibly he might have known..?"

A glare stopped Kadere in his tracks. "Taim! Taim knew only what we let him know!" Arachnae spat, before abruptly resuming both composure and knitting. Kadere flinched slightly. Those occasional flashes of temper, like a sudden, deadly whirlpool appearing momently in a still and placid lake, were one of the more disconcerting things about the Kirikil woman. Her dark gaze returned to Laers. "I believe you were asked to locate our quarry, dear?" she reminded him.

Laers swallowed nervously. And behind him, the door opened again, though this time it was not the Innkeeper but a tall youth with auburn hair and blue eyes, who moved gracefully… and was clad in a garish yellow coat and lurid green breeches, tucked into crimson knee-boots. The Tinker closed the door quietly behind him, and bowed to Arachnae elaborately, as though performing the first step in some Cairheinin court-dance, then stood quietly against the wall. He did not speak, and ignored the room's other occupants. The wagon-driver turned away in disgust. Clearly, the Tuatha'an was a Friend also (if he was not, he would not be leaving the room alive) but his presence was confusing. Tinkers! Worse than useless… what did they need them for? The eyes of the old witch were still on him, holding a terrible expectancy that he could in no way satisfy.

"We could not get near them, or even find any tracks!" Laers protested.

"Did you even try?" Arachnae enquired, before looking down at her knitting, shaking her head back and forth sadly.

"It was impossible to go any further! Those bloody Trollocs are everywhere, swarming through the peaks, and they don't care a cuss that we're on the same side! They killed three of us, it's only the Great Lord's luck anyone made it back!"

Arachnae had heard enough. Her eyes narrowed and she clicked her knitting-needles rapidly together three times. Laers shifted nervously. That had sounded like some kind of a signal, but there was only the Tinker behind him – at which point, the Tinker in question stepped soundlessly forward and neatly cut his throat.

Hadnan Kadere looked down at the twitching wagon-driver, a pool of blood spreading over the floorboards. He sighed. The Tinker crouched smoothly next to his victim, watching him until he stopped kicking, slowly wiping a long, wicked blade clean on the fellow's rough coat. His eyes, colder than ice, drifted up to meet Kadere's and for a moment, he almost seemed to smile. Kadere scowled at Ranim, but said nothing. It was strange that one of the Tuatha'an was so adept at killing… Laers should have been more wary, should have heeded the talk of Mistress Kirikil's blue-eyed boy and what he could do with a knife. Oh well. At least it had not been _him_…

"At this rate, I will run-out of wagon-drivers and guards…" Kadere muttered. "I shall have to hire Trollocs, and they will probably just eat the horses… _after_ they have eaten my customers!"

"Tsk. Stupid beasts." Arachnae had returned to her knitting. "I think that you have larger problems than that, Hadnan-dear," she murmured, without looking up.

Kadere was a very dangerous man. But when he glanced at the old lady in the rocking chair, clicking her knitting needles softly against each other, he felt a shiver of fear go down his spine. He was well aware that she would speak in those same pleasant, grandmotherly tones, when she ordered his death.

Ranim, while watching Kadere idly, was thinking that the broken-nosed fellow had been his forty-seventh kill in Mistress Kirikil's service. Only three more to go. Arachnae had said she would give him a present to celebrate his fiftieth killing at her command. Something special, she had promised. He wondered vaguely what it would be... though even without that incentive, he would have killed the remaining three, whoever they would turn out to be, simply because he enjoyed it.

Ranim liked to kill, he liked it very much. The first time had been difficult, of course… he had sworn his Oaths to the Great Lord and then been told to kill… no, he did not want to think about that. Not that it disturbed him, at least not now, but it had been too easy. But by the time he slew his tenth victim, he had already become very good at it. It had surprised other Friends that a Tuatha'an should be so skilled at murder. But it had not surprised him. He had turned his back on the Way of the Leaf in his heart, long before he took that rejection into his hands. A long time before his people declared him Lost and he left the wagons far behind. Killing made him feel powerful. He liked that feeling, even more than he liked to kill.

Kadere went to the door, leaning out into the hall. A muttered command, and after a moment, two of his wagon-guards came in with a rough blanket. They registered little surprise at the corpse that awaited them – such disposal of former comrades was a common enough occurrence – simply rolled the unfortunate Laers in the blanket and carried him away. With a last cautious glance at Arachnae, who smiled sweetly up at him, Kadere followed, closing the door quietly behind him.

Ranim sheathed his knife. "The Black Ajah Warder brought this for you, Dark Mistress," he stated, pulling a waxed packet from his pocket, placing it on the table beside the rocking chair. Arachnae eyed the familiar scrawl on the envelope. Addressed to her, using her _real_ name, which none alive should have known.

"Did he now? Tsk. I have never trusted that Mathwin woman," she muttered, "even less so than the rest of her kind… she plays a dangerous game." Arachnae's small, dark eyes flicked to Ranim's face. "And how was the meeting, my lad? Anything that your old Mistress need concern herself with?" She patted a small, wooden foot-stool set beside the rocking-chair.

Ranim sat, perched at her feet, shaking his head. "I made contact with the Atha'an Miere Friend, as instructed. He received his orders, and will obey, despite what appeared to be a marked unwillingness." For a moment, Ranim's voice took on a note of grudging respect. "The Great Master spoke to me also, briefly… such a one as he is hard to refuse!" He shrugged. "The Sea Folk renegade, who serves the Father of Storms, as he calls him… his ships await your call at Bandar Eban, Mistress. Oh, and there are three village boys not long for this world, I think, but I was given no instructions regarding their disposal, so I think that a task left to others..." His reddish brows drew down, a little. "Strange… one of them had yellow eyes... he 'minded me of a fellow I saw as a boy, when I was still amongst the wagons, a man who it was said could talk to wolves..." Ranim shrugged again, and helpfully pulled a little more wool from the ball at his Mistress's feet, paying it out idly as he considered.

"Wolves! Tut. Nasty, noisy things, always spoiling the lovely quiet nights with their unpleasant howling." Arachnae's tone became more intent. "Tell me, dear… was young Jaichim there?"

Ranim nodded. He did not quite smile, but his voice held a slightly sardonic note, the nearest he ever came to expressing anything approaching humour.

"Yes, Mistress, I saw Carridin... he had attempted to disguise himself with a heavy cloak and a stoop, but clearly, it was him." Ranim scowled slightly. "Had the opportunity presented itself..." He did not trouble to finish the sentence.

Arachnae sighed ruefully, and ruffled Ranim's auburn hair with something almost like affection. "It was good of you to think of it at least, dear... but there are some places where you cannot quite so readily dispose of your enemies, and if I am correct about _where_ that meeting took place..." She shook her head with regret. "A shame, though." She frowned slightly, her voice becoming querulous for a moment.

"That imbecile Carridin cost me my last Grey Man – and they aren't easy to come by! He wasted a useful tool, trying to do away with his superior..." Arachnae scowled. The accursed girl was also to blame – even as a young snip, before she even went to the Tower, the Amadici wench had managed to upset her plans! And then later, in Haddon Mirk... she and her foolish friend had caused the death of her protégé, her most promising student in a century... well, they would pay. The Lady Ellythia first. Arachnae had long planned an unpleasant revenge for her, unpleasant indeed.

Ranim pulled some more wool free, his face placid. He did not need the bond between them to know what Arachnae was thinking about. Sometimes, he wondered if the Mistress was a little obsessed with the young Aes Sedai, with her vengeance. But that was _her_ business. He was thinking that he had almost become a Grey Man himself. After he left the wagons and the Way far behind, after he swore his Oaths and carried-out those first, difficult murders... he had not really cared what became of him. But the Mistress had seen his potential. She had had other plans for him.

"Just think of it," Arachnae continued, "she and her Warder, they were _here_, in this very room! I could have had them, had that fool sent word in time!"

Ranim frowned slightly. Perhaps 'obsession' was understating it.

"But I think me it is better this way. She has the Key, I am told, and will lead us right to the prize. Unless I am wrong about what it is she seeks… and it has been a _long_ time since I was wrong about something… well…"

Arachnae trailed-off and returned to her knitting, nearly done now.

"Mistress?" Ranim prompted.

"One moment, dear… pearl… thread it through… _and_… there."

Arachnae had finished. She released the Source with reluctance, letting the dark knitting-needles, woven of Air and Fire, dissipate into nothing… then held what she had made up to the window and beheld the full, hunter's moon through a delicate, lamb's wool spider's web. She smiled, and nodded, satisfied.

"You are caught, Ellythia-dear," Arachnae murmured, "held quite fast… well now, you should have remembered that the Little Spider _always_ catches her fly."

* * *

**Part III: Darkwood**

"So… this is the Darkwood."

"It _is_ dark."

"_And_ a wood."

"Parish Swar!"

"What?"

"I said; 'Parish Swar.' "

"I thought you sneezed. What is Parish Swar?"

"It is what the Darkwood is called in the Old Tongue."

"Parish Swar? Huh. What does it mean?"

"I have no idea, it is just what the Darkwood is called in the-"

"Boys!" snapped Shrinalla Tolamani of the Green Ajah, losing patience, "do stop chattering!" Aebel and Blaek swivelled in their saddles to look back at her with those big brown eyes beneath lovely long- no! She must not lose focus. Shrina clicked her tongue with irritation. She enjoyed looking at her Warders – there were few women, especially (to her annoyance) back in the Tower, who _didn't_, from squeaking novices up to venerable Aes Sedai who had worn the Shawl close-on two centuries and really should have been setting a better example at their age! Yes, the Twins were fine for looking at. But she did not always enjoy having to listen to them.

Shrina spurred A'vron forward, shouldering the gelding between Mosk and Merk, who shied away, snorting, her Warders struggling with the reins. She smiled sweetly, continuing in a more even tone;

"Lovely lads, perhaps you could dispense with the fascinating discourse for the time being? Your Aes Sedai is trying to _think_."

"Sorry Shrina," they chanted, in unison.

Shrina nodded approvingly, put the reins between her teeth and, thumping her heels into A'vron's flanks, trotted rapidly past Aebel and Blaek, giving each an affectionate swat on the rump as she did so. She spat the reins out, turning her mount skilfully with her knees and glanced back, raising a finger in admonition.

"Oh, and good boys who spent more time learning their lessons than they did leaping about the practice yard with their shirts off, waving toy swords about," she added, rather unfairly, "might know that it is pronounced _Paerish_ Swar, which means 'the wood that is dark' in the Old Tongue." Shrina gestured at the towering firs clustered to either side of the ancient, forgotten road. Even close to noon, they blotted out most of the sunlight from above. "Or, in other words… the _Darkwood?_"

The Twins had the good grace to look embarrassed, or at least pretend so. Though there were several terms for 'dark' in the Old Tongue, that differed depending on the consistency of the darkness concerned. It could be a troublesome language.

Shrina sighed, ruefully. "Ignorant, unlettered youths – if you weren't quite so pretty, I should dispense with your services altogether!"

"Yes, Shrina," they chorused loyally, knowing that she would not.

As their Aes Sedai took the lead – which she really was not supposed to do, but there was little use in saying anything – Aebel and Blaek eyed each other. 'When there are squalls ahead, it's best to reef your sails early,' their oilfishing father had always told them. Serving Shrina could certainly be an invigorating experience, but it was often exhausting.

It had certainly been an exhausting few months. Shrina had forced the pace up the Silver Road to Lugard, then across to Jehannah, grudgingly allowing a night at an Inn in each city but certainly nowhere in-between! Not that the Twins particularly cared, there was only one city (with the possible exception of Tar Valon) that held much interest for them, and they were a long way from Mayene. They suspected that one of the reasons they were avoiding Inns was that Shrina had been even more improvident with their dwindling funds than she had grudgingly admitted. But the weather had been clement, the Summer lasting well into Autumn to seemingly make-up for the long Winter and delayed Spring, and there were worse places to sleep than beneath the stars. A span beneath the ground, for example, which was why they had avoided the more direct northerly route, through Amadicia. Then, there had been the dangerous journey along a forgotten pass, that took them up through the Mountains of Mist… and the strange fellow they had encountered just prior to this. Their guide.

The Twins scanned the woods to either side. Where was he? He often disappeared all day, hunting with his… friends. But their gaze moved back to the road, for a clearing had opened up ahead, and it was not an empty clearing. Aebel and Blaek eased their swords in their scabbards and spurred forward a little, falling-in to either side of Shrina, anticipating trouble. A Hunter for the Horn should always expect trouble, over and above whether he was also a Gaidin of the White Tower with an impetuous young Aes Sedai to ward!

A dozen small wagons stood circled beneath a large, spreading oak that had grown right up through the cracked paving stones of the ancient road that traversed the centre of the Darkwood. Shaggy, piebald horses stood patiently in the traces, leaning their heads down to chew at the occasional acorn. As they approached, the Twins released their hilts, feeling foolish. Clearly, they would have no need for their blades here. The wagons, like small, wheeled houses, were painted brightly in garish reds, blues and yellows, colours that clashed rather than complimented. And a score of people, dressed in even brighter, eye-wrenching hues, were busy lashing pots and trestles and other small items to the sides of the wagons, preparatory to being on their way. Several dogs, large mastiffs, lay by one of the wheels – they rose to their haunches at the rider's approach, growling… until one of the Tinkers whistled softly to them, at which they subsided, whining.

Shrina had taken note of the loudly-decorated wagons and Travelling People also, and swiftly draped her cloak over the sword hanging from her pommel – there was no need for the Tinkers to disapprove of all three of them! Odd, to see so few of their wagons… perhaps they had become split-off from the rest of their caravan? Though there could be darker reasons for why this was so small a group of Tuatha'an...

The Tinker who had quieted the dogs, an older woman, moving with grace and assurance despite the grey in her hair, watched them calmly while the others, mostly younger folk, continued about their tasks, perhaps with a touch more haste than before. She held a small basket full of white, Queen's Crown mushrooms that she had clearly been gathering, and stood examining them without fear, simply the wariness that the Travelling People always viewed others with. Even without the wagons and her companions, her bright yellow skirts and brighter red cloak, heavily worked with blue embroidery, declared her to be one of the Tuatha'an.

"A good day to you," the Tinker woman called, in a clear, musical voice, "we would welcome you to our fires, were we not about to leave this place." She sounded genuinely regretful, placed the basket of mushrooms up on the seat of a wagon and turned back to the riders, hands smoothing her garish skirts, dark eyes fixed on them. The other Tuatha'an continued to prepare for departure, though wary eyes drifted to the three riders, shying away from the Warder's swords.

"Your welcome warms my heart even so," Shrina answered, politely. She dismounted, tossing her reins to Blaek, and approached. A couple of the large mastiffs roused and growled again, until the Tuatha'an woman whistled at them in sharper tones – the dogs whined and lay back down with the others.

"Forgive them," apologised the Tinker woman, "they are nervous – I believe there to be wolves in the vicinity."

Shrina smiled. "There could well be," she allowed. But took care not to approach the mastiffs too closely, since they were rather large… and dogs, even well-behaved Tinker-dogs, did not tend to care for Aes Sedai overmuch.

"I am Leya," said the Tinker woman, inclining her head.

"You may call me Mistress Talloriandred if you wish," responded Shrina, skirting the First Oath, and with something of a flourish at that! She nodded to her Warders. "My armsmen answer to Jon and Jef… do forgive their swords, but these are dangerous times. I assure you, we mean you no harm…" She smiled at the Twins. "You are quite harmless, are you not, Jon and Jef?" They scowled.

"We are, Mistress Talloriandred…"

"Yes indeed, Mistress Talloriandred…"

Leya blinked. "That is well to know…" She examined the Twins, taking note of their identical looks, and smiled. "Good day to you… Jon… and Jef…" She was clearly unsure which was which… but then, so were they! Her gaze took in their swords, and she sighed. The Twins sighed also, though less with sadness and more exasperation. If there was one thing they disliked more than being called 'Jon and Jef' – the _latest_ assumed names Shrina had insisted they adopt – it was having to call _her_ 'Mistress Talloriandred.' A ridiculous name, taken from a foolish Romance Shrina had been reading by the fireside, each night!

Supposedly, the absurd book was based on the life of a fabled Aes Sedai Queen of long-dead Almoren, who had defied the customs of her Nation and the horror of her family by bonding and marrying seven Warders… _seven!_ Even the legendary Soldier-Amyrlin herself had only had five! The Sun-Queen, whose name Shrina had appropriated, reputedly had a Gaidin-husband for every day of the week! This was long before the Farede calendar was universally adopted, or she might even have married _ten_ Warders…

Besides, Shrina was far too tall to pass for Cairheinin, as well as _way_ too loud! But would she listen? Would the sun rise twice in the same day? Worst of all, she insisted on using the assumed names whenever possible, which had garnered some odd stares in places where it might have been better to avoid notice. If only she would just choose one set of names, _ordinary_ names, and then stick to them – but Shrina was never happy with her choices for long and tried to improve on them, whilst making matters steadily worse!

"Do your People often travel the Paerish Swar?" Shrina enquired.

Leya nodded. "We try to avoid the places of those who do not follow the Way of the Leaf… it has been long since the Nation of Almoth dwindled and there are few villages left in these parts." She gestured smoothly to the north. "We recently camped at an Ogier stedding two days travel from here, and now mean to go south." She shook her head sadly. "There is trouble on the Plain, men killing men…" Her voice held great regret.

Shrina nodded. "I had heard… Taraboners and Domani squabbling, worse than usual, and one hears of these invaders from across the Ocean…" Her tone became casual. "Mistress Leya, I have something of an interest in old ruins… and relics… I had heard that there were such to be found, to the east of the Darkwood?"

"I believe that to be the case, where the wood borders the Lake of Mists." Leya shrugged, "though we avoid that area of the Paerish Swar, of course…"

"Indeed? Why-ever do you do that?" Shrina enquired innocently, though she already _knew_ why! Their guide had explained _that_ part…

"There is a deep and treacherous bog there, impossible for our wagons to cross, certainly… horses also, I think that none may go there..." Leya looked concerned, as though this reminded her of something. "You came from the south?"

Shrina nodded. "That we did."

"The ford over the Andahar is passable?"

"Oh yes," Shrina confirmed, "the rains have been light, the river should only come half-way up your wheels…"

The other Tinkers were ready now, taking their places in the wagons, the dogs rising to their feet, ready to resume their endless travelling. Leya stepped gracefully up to the seat of the lead wagon, clucked to the horses as she shook the reins.

"Peace be on you, Mistress Talloriandred, and on you also, Jon and Jef," she said in farewell, as the wagon started forward.

"Fare thee well, Mistress Leya," called Shrina, as she passed.

The Twins frowned, though not at the Tuatha'an as they drove their wagons past, but rather at their Aes Sedai. Shrina eyed her Warders, who were clearly sulking. She had masked the bond so that she could not feel their sulkiness (it always upset her stomach) but one look at their faces told her everything.

"Is there a problem?" she enquired, unnecessarily, since there clearly was.

"No, Mistress Tamborliandra…" muttered Aebel, whilst Blaek remained silent. They looked as though they had each been sucking on a lemon!

Shrina scowled. "It's _Talloriandred_," she hissed, "What is so _difficult_ about that?" Her Warders did not choose to respond. They still looked sulky. She unmasked the bond. Yes, definitely still sulking.

Shrina sighed. "Alright," she muttered, "I'll come up with another name for myself – a _shorter_ name…" 'Jon and Jef' were not mollified by this, however.

"We want different names too, Shrina!"

"Yes, Shrina, names that do not sound stupid!"

"Hmm… how about 'Mann' and 'Darb?' "

"Ha."

"Ha."

Shrina was not the only Hunter using an assumed name – others who had sworn the Oath were doing so as well, in most cases to disguise undistinguished origins, but sometimes for the opposite reason… as she had discovered shortly after their arrival in Illian, when a bold young woman nearly trampled her beneath the hooves of the fiery stallion that she was having some trouble controlling.

_The dark-haired girl was clearly an accomplished horsewoman – most riders would have crashed to the cobbles long since. The horse reared again, the girl clinging on somehow._

_"Burn you!" she snarled, grabbing a double handful of mane and leaning forward to sink her teeth into the animal's ear! The stallion whinnied loudly, settling and sidestepping, nearly knocking Shrina over before Aebel pulled her to safety and Blaek seized the trailing bridle. The girl ceased biting the snorting animal's flesh and slipped gracefully down from its back. The horse-dealer came running toward them, wringing his grubby hands. The girl smoothed her divided skirts, scowling._

_"Forgive me, Mistress," he wailed, "I don't know what got into him!"_

_"I'll tell you what got into him, you cursed fool – the Dark One did!" The girl glared at seller and stallion both – the horse rolled its eyes at her, baring its teeth and blowing foam over them both, while attempting to kick Blaek. "Burn-you, _and_ your evil livestock! This isn't a horse, it's a bloody four-legged Trolloc!"_

_Shrina dusted her gown a little, examining the girl shrewdly. Probably Saldaean, with that bold nose, those tilted eyes… and that temper! Although the girl did have cause to be angry. As did _she_ for that matter, innocently walking past a horse-market one moment, nearly lying on her back covered in horseshoe-shaped bruises the next… Blaek dodged a final bite from the stallion, thrust the bridle roughly into the horse-dealer's hand and helped him on his way with a kick. The Saldaean girl glanced at Blaek, as though about to express gratitude, blinked, noticed Aebel, blinked again, before her dark, tilted eyes finally settled on Shrina – still in her Warder's protective embrace, though the young Aes Sedai no longer really needed it, examining her with a penetrating, green-eyed gaze._

_The girl spoke in more measured tones. "I hope that you were not hurt?" Definitely a Saldaean accent._

_"Not at all," Shrina assured her, "no more than yourself… you controlled the animal well. A fine piece of horsewomanship. Excellent teethwork. But I do believe that your people are famed for their skills in the saddle. You _are_ from Saldaea, are you not?"_

_"Yes…" The Saldaean girl seemed reluctant to answer, she glanced again at the Twins, but not in the way most women looked at them, more taking note of their dangerous grace. Her attention returned to Shrina. The girl's dark, tilted eyes searched her face for a moment before flicking down to her hands, which were, of course, ringless. Shrina smiled. The girl clearly knew Aes Sedai and Warders when she saw them! She cast her mind back to the last time she was in Maradon…_

_"You are here to take the Oath, young lady? To Hunt the Horn?"_

_The Saldaean girl nodded. Shrina smiled, touching her arm lightly._

_"Forgive me, where are my manners? You may know me as Mistress Alcahandra, and my attendants answer to Shim and Shaw. Who might you be?"_

_The girl raised her head proudly, tilted eyes flashing above her bold nose. "My name is Mandarb!"_

_The Twins had been glowering over mention of their most recent aliases – at this, they abruptly snickered. Lan Gaidin's warhorse! The Saldaean girl glared at them. The Twins' faces became blank again. When in Tar Valon, which was not often, they had spent a deal of time in the Warder's stables. Gaidin preferred to care for their own horses, and Mosk and Merk were loath to let any other than the Twins approach them, anyway._

_They had never met the famed Diademed Battle-Lord, Mandragoran, who was seen in the Tower less often even than they, but had heard plenty of tales of him from other Gaidin – naturally, he was something of a legend amongst their fraternity, particularly with the younger Warders. Without trying to make the hero-worship too obvious, the Twins had casually solicited further details of Lan's exploits from Old Quilly, the Head Stableman, who had been tending to the mounts of Aes Sedai and their Warders for nearly forty years and was accustomed to such requests. For example… when Lan Gaidin had fought his way through a Trolloc Fist and then an entire Legion of Whitecloaks whilst bringing Moiraine Sedai back to the Tower to be Healed… had Old Quilly perhaps been present in the stables when he arrived?_

_Old Quilly had, in point of fact, but since he respected the privacy of Lord Mandragoran, who might not actually _say_ much, but (unlike certain Red Sisters he could mention) always had a silver penny and a kind nod for a hard-working stableman, he neither confirmed nor denied any rumours, always supplying only the same, solitary detail – the name of Lan's horse._

_'Mandarb' shifted her glare from the Twins to Shrina. "It means-"_

_"Blade, yes, a suitable name for a Hunter." Shrina grinned momentarily. If they were a horse! "But what might your true name be, young lady? I know of some Merchant Houses in the west of Saldaea, perhaps your family is familiar to me?" The girl's lip curled slightly. Shrina smiled. It had been nearly five years, she hadn't been quite sure… until now. That Noble-bred arrogance, shuddering at the thought of belonging to a lowly Merchant House who could not trace their line back further than the War of a Hundred Years…_

Hah! I knew it was her!

_Shrina leant forward slightly, resting a hand on the Saldaean girl's arm. "Tell me, Zarine te Bashere – does your father know that you are in Illian?" she enquired, softly._

_Zarine swallowed, yanking her arm away. The Warders drifted to either side of her, blocking a possible escape, but she scowled and made no move to flee. They were surrounded by a huge crowd, a mere tributary of the same vast throng that filled Illian at the moment, only semi-composed of the usual complement of Illianers; merchants, sailors and thieves, because the other half all seemed to be Hunters. As well as no few Gleemen! No-one seemed to be paying much attention to them, but even so, Zarine had the sense to lower her voice when she spat, "what business is it of yours, Aes Sedai?"_

_Shrina's smile widened. "Oh, _everything_ is our business, like it or not. We're famous for it, I'm afraid. More to the point, my young Hunter, does your _mother_ know that you're here? Now, _there_ is a woman I would _not_ like to cross… they say that even the Trollocs along the Great Blight act meek and speak soft when the Lady Deira is in a foul mood!"_

_Zarine gulped again, possibly at the thought of her mother, then the fight seemed to go out of her and she sagged a little. "What are you going to do?" she sighed, resignedly._

_Shrina was genuinely perplexed at this. "Do? I am not going to do anything. You seemed awfully familiar, for somebody who had just almost crushed me to a paste with the aid of a deranged horse… I merely wished to see if I was right about your identity – and I was! That is all. You have grown somewhat since last I saw you, incidentally." The girl – _Zarine! what a vastly unsuitable name for this young firebrand!_ – was gaping at her. Shrina smiled her sweetest smile, gave her a last gentle pat on the arm. "Still, one can't stand here gossiping all day – my Inn awaits! And I do wish you every fortune with your Hunt – though perhaps it is not necessarily a _Horn_ that you seek?"_

A husband, most likely, even if she doesn't know it yet... these Saldaean girls rarely settle down until they've gone out and caught themselves a man!

_Shrina turned gracefully away, her Warders moving with her. Zarine stared after Shrina in some surprise, almost forgetting to be angry for a moment. She blinked when the departing Twins muttered darkly over their shoulders;_

_"Choose your mount with care, Mistress Mandarb, because these _Illianers_-"_

_"-are almost as bad as _Tairens_ when it comes to cheating you of your coin!"_

_"Step lively, my lads, and do stop chattering. Farewell, Zarine!"_

_Zarine scowled. "Mandarb!" she shouted, "I am called Mandarb!"_

Shrina had looked for young Zarine the next day, but suspected she was keeping a low profile. Then again, since there had been several thousand Hunters crammed into the Square of Tammuz, she could have been twenty paces away and Shrina would never even have known. Perhaps she should have done something at least, putting a Finding weave on the girl's belt buckle? Sending a pigeon to Maradon? She was sure Nieda would have obliged… though Ellyth had sworn her to secrecy regarding the woman's allegiance to the Blue Ajah, she seemed to hold Aes Sedai of the Green in equally high regard...

Zarine's parents would be spitting blood over the girl's disappearance, very likely. But everyone had the right to Hunt the Horn. Shrina wished her luck, and was glad that she had let her go on her way. She would save kidnapping spirited young Noblewomen and dragging them back to their families to be married-off to dull young Noblemen for when she was an old, white-haired Aes Sedai with all romantic notions long since flayed out of her boot-leather soul!

The last of the wagons had disappeared from sight, the sound of hooves and wheels on the occasional ancient flagstone dying away into the shadowed stillness of the Darkwood. Shrina watched them go sadly. She had been guested by the Travelling People once before – learning to dance the tiganza had been an interesting experience, though Ellyth had stuffily refused to participate! – and felt great sadness at the way the world viewed and treated them. Their guide did not seem to care for them overmuch, though had said he often encountered the Tuatha'an since he frequented the uninhabited places of the world as much as they. Which reminded her… Shrina glanced at the trees to either side suspiciously, as did her Warders.

"I know you're there!" she called, impatiently, "the scary Tinkers have gone on their way... so it is safe for you to come out now!"

At which, a spare, sun-leathered man stepped soundlessly from the forest. His rough clothes were a patchwork of sewn-together animal skins, his long, greying hair bound back with a rawhide cord, his beard a spray of bristles covering his chest. A long knife hung at his belt, a bow on his back. He smiled, a feral smile. His golden eyes seemed to glow slightly, in the gloom beneath the trees.

"No need to shout," said Elyas Machera, softly. He held up a pair of skinny rabbits and grinned slightly, looking rather… wolfish. "I am done with _my_ hunting... so we can proceed with _yours_."

The Twins stared at him coldly. The yellow-eyed fellow claimed to know a way through the bog… but they did not have to _like_ their guide. Persecution by the Red Ajah or no, Atual Gaidin had always told them that a Warder's duty should only end when he was dead. This man had turned his back on that duty. But there it was.

Later, with the rabbits and some wood-quail the Twins had brought down with their horse-bows cooked and consumed, they sat about the flickering flames of a small camp-fire. Shrina could smell the peaty aroma of the bog from where they had stopped for the night, at its outskirts. It would be difficult enough to cross it in daylight, so they would wait until dawn rather than attempt the passage by night… She was re-examining the parchment Roth had given her.

Elyas lounged on the other side of the fire. A young wolf lay next to him, tongue lolling, seeming to grin at Shrina whenever she looked up. Apparently, his name was 'Sparks'... the short version of a much longer name… and Sparks certainly liked the young Aes Sedai. Well, he had good reason to. Though it seemed odd – she had never realised that wolves had _names!_

"You are sure you know a way through this bog, Elyas?" If the Horn truly lay within the Paerish Swar, as Roth's clue seemed to suggest, then it had to be within the impassable east of the Darkwood to have lain hidden for so long – it must be!

Elyas shrugged, picking at his teeth with a splinter of wood. "_I_ don't – I told you, I've not been there before, anymore than you intrepid Hunters have!" He chuckled. The Twins bristled and Elyas grinned at them. "Settle down, lads! I mean your Mistress no disrespect…"

Shrina was glaring at Elyas, something she found herself doing a lot.

"Then..?" she began, but their guide cut her off, gesturing toward the shadows beyond the fire-light, where more pairs of shining, golden eyes – mirrors of his own – stared watchfully from the darkness.

"My friends, remember? There's not much a wolf can't sniff-out. I might not know how to get through this Light-cursed bog… but they do."

Shrina eyed the wolves in the darkness complacently.

"Well, as long as _someone_ does," she muttered. She had always quite liked wolves, she thought that they were rather majestic creatures. She was alone in this, the Twins (as well as the horses) certainly did not want them to come any closer…

"Though I heard a rumour from a Peddler that the Horn of Valere had been found, and was up in Shienar somewhere," Elyas added. "Fal Dara, he said…"

Shrina sniffed, disparagingly. "Nonsense! If a Borderman had found it, he'd already have led the Heroes of the Horn in a second strike on Shayol Ghul! And we'd all have heard more than rumours about _that!_"

"I suppose…" Elyas shrugged. "Never fear, Shrinalla Sedai, I'll get you there… if there is anything there…" He grinned his wolfish grin. "After all, one good turn deserves another."

He was right. It did.

_"Oh, the poor thing!"_

_"Be careful Shrina!"_

_"Do not get too close, Shrina!"_

_There were still only a day's travel into the Mountains of Mist, and not beyond the range of hunters or trappers clearly, since the young wolf had its paw firmly caught in the vicious metal teeth of a spring-trap. It was whining, and biting ineffectually at the cruel iron jaws that held it fast. It raised its head and growled warningly at Shrina as she dismounted and approached._

_"Stop that!" she snapped. Surprisingly, the wolf did so._

_The Twins hovered behind, holding the bridals of their mounts. Shrina embraced the Source, channeled a weave of air, and the steel trap sprang open, the young wolf pulling its paw free and limping back away from them. The swords of her Warders slid from their sheaths with a simultaneous hiss._

_"Leave him alone," protested Shrina, turning to them, "he's had a bad day!"_

_The Twins were staring at something over her shoulder, and Shrina felt more caution through the bond than could be attributed to a wounded wolf… she turned._

_The oddly-dressed, bearded fellow with the yellow eyes who had materialised soundlessly from the bushes glared at her Warders, then seemed to dismiss them. An action even stranger than his appearance, since one did not lightly overlook Gaidin! He thrust his long knife back into its sheath and addressed the young wolf, which had limped up to him and was crouching at his feet. Clearly, the two were acquainted._

_"Foolish pup," the man chided the wolf, "you could smell it was there, under the leaves, but you had to go and stick your paw in it anyway!" The wolf whined, licking at the injured foot. Shrina scowled. She hated seeing creatures in pain..._

_"You with the funny eyes," she snapped, "save the recriminations for later and hold the beast still – and if he bites me, I'll flaming-well bite him back!"_

_With that, despite the protests of her Warders, Shrina strode over, crouched and seized the young wolf on either side of its ears. She channeled. The wolf whined, disconcerted, as the Healing weave shivered through it from nose to tail… but then leant cautiously on its now-uninjured paw, clearly surprised that the pain had gone._

_"He'll be tired after that," Shrina told the yellow-eyed fellow, "perhaps you should make him some nourishing barley broth, beard-face?" She glared at the spring-trap. "Nasty things," she muttered, squinting at it – and the snarl-toothed device proceeded to melt into a pile of slag, hissing and steaming. The young wolf yelped, glancing up at the yellow-eyed man, who grinned._

_Shrina eyed him. "What?" she demanded. It was almost as though the wolf had _spoken_ to him! Talking to wolves... now what did that make her think of?_

_"Nothing," responded the strange fellow. Shrina continued to stare at him, suspiciously. He glanced at the Twins in their colour-shifting cloaks, then at the sword hanging from Shrina's pommel, seeming to smile slightly behind his beard._

_"Green Ajah?" he enquired. He knew she was Aes Sedai, but seemed as much curious as cautious… odd._

_Shrina nodded. Yellow eyes... she was wondering about a story Alanna had once told her… the Reds trying to gentle a Warder who claimed he could hear wolves... surely there couldn't be _that_ many yellow-eyed men in the world?_

_"Shrinalla Sedai, saviour of distressed wolf-pups, at your service!"_

_The man did not trouble to give her his name in return, was eyeing her with some of the wariness of a wild beast... of the two, he seemed more that way inclined than the young wolf, who appeared to be grinning at Shrina, his tongue lolling out!_

_"Back at the Tower, Shrinalla Sedai... do you happen to know a Battle-Sister by the name of… Rina?" the man enquired, casually, keeping half a gold-burnished eye on the Twins, who had not yet sheathed their swords, and were hovering uncertainly in the background._

_"Rina Hafden?" Shrina exclaimed. "I do indeed… though 'Battle-Axe' might be a better description!" The formidable old Aes Sedai had been one of those who had practically made her crawl over hot-coals before accepting her into the Green Ajah… she had accompanied her to Maradon shortly after being raised to the Shawl and had been treated much like a maid-servant!_

_The man chuckled, shaking his head. "Dear old Rina… she hasn't changed much then, I take it?"_

_"Aes Sedai rarely do, I am afraid... Elyas."_

_The disconcerting, yellow eyes narrowed slightly._

_"It is Elyas, isn't it? Elyas… Machera?"_

_Elyas did not move, but Shrina got the impression that he was either on the verge of fleeing… or attacking. Through the bond, she felt the Twins tense._

_"Oh, calm down!" Shrina exclaimed, exasperated, before waving at Aebel and Blaek. "You too, boys – sheathe your swords and cease scowling!" They half-obeyed, the blades reluctantly returning to scabbards. Well, one-out-of-two wasn't bad... "We're all friends here!" She turned back to Elyas. "At least, I would like to think so. If it _is_ you, then whether or not you used to be a Warder, you were never _my_ Warder, and therefore what you do with yourself is none of my concern!"_

_Elyas seemed to relax somewhat, though he gave the Twins a narrow glance, which they returned. "Yes, I am Elyas Machera," he grudgingly admitted._

_"Though I hear that if Rina ever gets her claws on you…" Shrina left that unfinished. She was sure Elyas could imagine the rest. "But by all accounts, the Red Ajah like you even less than she, which is an excellent reason for me to approve of your continued existence! Besides…" Shrina glanced at the young wolf sitting at her feet, and gave his ears a stroke. The wolf sniffed her hand, then gave it an approving lick. "…I have always rather liked wolves. Whether they walk on four legs or two!"_

_The yellow-eyed ex-Warder's opinion of this was somewhat brusque. "You are one bloody odd Aes Sedai!" Elyas growled, though with perhaps a hint of approval. The Twins' scowls intensified, like two identical storm-clouds._

_"_I'm_ odd? Look who's talking!" Shrina examined the former Gaidin for a moment, speculatively. "This exchange of frank opinion is all very well, but… I don't suppose you happen to know a way through these accursed mountains? We've been going back and forth for nearly a week, nothing but seemingly-promising passes that then peter-out after half a day so you have to backtrack – the map I acquired in Jehannah clearly isn't worth the paper it's scrawled on!"_

_Elyas eyed her, consideringly, for a long moment. Shrina did her best to exude serenity, though that yellow-eyed gaze was distinctly disconcerting. Eventually, the man shrugged. "A pass? I might do," he allowed._

Thus, the intrepid Hunters found themselves with a guide.

"It's awfully good of you to accompany us this far," Shrina commented, lowering the parchment for a moment. Elyas glanced up, his eyes shining in the darkness.

"I tend to go where my feet take me," he commented. "Besides, young Sparks says you have a good heart. For a two-legs, at least..." Shrina blinked.

The Twins eyed each other. They talked to their horses occasionally, but didn't expect them to talk _back!_

"I don't suppose your feet have taken you out west, lately?" Shrina enquired, casually, "one hears these strange stories, from Toman Head..?"

Elyas shook his head. "I was last up north of Andor… now I've come back down south, probably for good…" He smiled, bitterly. "Too many bloody ravens up there, for my liking!"

"Ravens?" Shrina enquired. '_I see the Ravens put to flight..._' "You mean, Shadow-spies?"

"Aye, accursed things. Whitecloaks too... I'm not sure which is _worse_." Elyas rubbed at his side a moment, scowling. He had taken a wound there, though had refused her offer of Healing, saying that it no longer troubled him. Elyas shook his head.

"We'll get you through the bog tomorrow, then I believe I'll be heading back down to Ghealdan... good hunting there, better than round here... and there's a fellow in Jarra who… well, no matter." His voice lowered and he added, speaking more to himself, "strange, to find _another_ one, though… truly, the old barriers must be breaking…" Elyas trailed-off, those burnished, golden eyes narrowing slightly. "By-the-by, Shrinalla Sedai... there's something on that bit of parchment you keep looking at, apart from the verse... very faint, looks almost like a watermark..."

"Really?" Shrina held the parchment up to the firelight, excitedly. There did seem to be something on it, a circular design imprinted into the ancient, yellowed page... she had not noticed it before. "It's very difficult to make-out..."

"I've got good eyes." Elyas grinned. "Try holding it nearer to the flames – not too near, mind..."

"Something-something-something Sages," the Twins muttered, under their breath.

Shrina glared at them – "silence!" – and crawled closer to the fire, letting the warmth of the flickering flames invest the parchment. Slowly, a dark circle appeared in the centre – the bottom half taken up with the curving squiggles of numerous waves, a round hill-shape rising above them and, in the centre... a slender tree!

"Hah!" she crowed, "Roth was right – for once! Guaire-bloody-Amalasan!"

The Twins exchanged confused glances, and Elyas seemed none the wiser.

"The False Dragon?" he asked, "the one the Hawkwing defeated?"

"The Hill above the Waves, emblazoned with the Tree of Life! His personal sigil! He must have hidden the Horn here, and left this clue!"

Despite their mutual antipathy, Aebel and Blaek found themselves sharing a doubtful look with Elyas.

"But Shrina," protested Aebel, "if the False Dragon possessed-"

"-the Horn of Valere," added Blaek, "why would he not-"

"Why wouldn't he have just sounded the bloody thing and got the Heroes of the Horn to trounce Artur Hawkwing instead?" demanded Elyas. The Twins glared at him – _Aebel_ was meant to have finished that sentence, not _he!_ Elyas grinned at them.

"I don't know!" exclaimed Shrina, "he was a bloody male-channeller, as in 'mad as a male-channeller' – do you expect what he did to _make sense?_"

Elyas and the Twins considered this. Shrina smiled triumphantly. Much as men loved to object and poke holes in sound theories, the inherent sensible logic of a woman would defeat them every time. "Time for bed, boys," she announced, including Elyas in this. Their guide smiled, wryly, which Shrina chose to ignore.

"We have a busy day tomorrow – the Horn won't find itself, you know!"

* * *

Elyas Machera tied a final strip of crimson silk (all that was left of a garish shift Shrina had reluctantly contributed) to a sapling and gestured at the low piles of stone rising from the mist ahead. There were similar brightly coloured strips leading back through the treacherous bog that they had spent half the day traversing, often having to dismount and lead the horses. The Twin's boots and britches were muddy, though not so much as the hem of Shrina's divided skirts.

"That should get you back to dry land," Elyas commented.

"Won't you be joining us in our search?" Shrina's eyes were on the ruins.

The taciturn huntsman shook his head emphatically.

"_I_ didn't swear any bloody oaths in Illian! I believe I'll be heading south again, if it's all the same to you." Elyas did not trouble to mention that he preferred the company of his friends, to people... his pack… though it had been pleasant enough to spend time with the exuberant young Aes Sedai, if not her Warders.

"Well... I thank you for your aid, Elyas." Shrina held out her hand and Elyas hesitated, then gripped it lightly for a moment. The Twins crossed their arms. _They_ would not be shaking hands with the fellow anytime soon! Not that he cared...

"It isn't everyone who would go out of their way to help a foolish young pup..." Sparks whined softly from the undergrowth, thick clumps of tall heather growing out of the dampness on all sides. Elyas grinned. "My young friend wishes a successful hunt to the 'two-legged She who touches the wind that moves the sun and calls fire to melt the painful biting thing like frost at noon!' "

Shrina blinked, and glanced at the young wolf. "Did he just say all that?"

Elyas shrugged. "It's not exactly saying, more a bundle of sensations and images… wolves always have long names for people, almost as long as the names they have for each other..." Sparks tilted his head to one side and whuffed. "Though he is just plain confused about why you would want to chase after an inedible hunk of metal rather than a nice fat deer!"

Shrina gave Sparks a last caress on the ears. "Tell him that a nice deer, however fat, cannot call the Heroes of the Ages to fight in the Last Battle!"

Elyas nodded. "The Final Hunt, they call it. The wolves think it won't be long now…"

"Do they?" Shrina exclaimed. "Well, I'm glad _your_ friends agree with me on that point, _mine_ certainly never have!" Shrina sighed, momentarily wishing that she could talk to wolves… provided such an ability did not necessitate her eyes changing colour, though she supposed it must. She was of the Green Ajah, not the _Yellow_, after all!

Without further farewell, Elyas paced away, back through the misty bogland, heeled by Sparks, the shaggy shapes of his other friends drifting from the mist to fall in around him. Shrina watched them wend their way through the treacherous bog, traversing the hidden path that the wolves had sniffed-out, until they were out of sight.

"I think I'm going to miss him," Shrina sighed. The Twins snorted. She scowled. "I was talking about _Sparks!_ You _never_ like any of my friends!" she complained, then turned her attention to the ruins. They were clearly old... very old.

Leaving the horses picketed in the remains of an ancient courtyard, surrounded by tumbled stones, they explored further. It seemed to be the ruins of an ancient palace and its outbuildings, tall pines growing up through fallen walls, shards of ancient tile under a layer of dead needles crunching beneath their feet. A low hill seemed to loom from the mist – on closer examination, it proved to be a mound of rubble, perhaps the vestiges of a massive dome. Beneath a partly-collapsed archway to one side, there appeared to be stairs leading down. But it was the faded, moss-encrusted sigil inscribed into the keystone above that caught their attention. The sigil from the parchment – a tree-emblazoned hill above rolling waves.

Shrina cackled triumphantly, then embraced the Source, filling herself with as much _saidar_ as she could safely hold, perhaps even a touch more. Squinting with concentration, she wove thick tendrils of Air, extending them into the rubble, shifting the massive blocks of fallen stone aside. It took some time and no little effort, and she staggered from the strain towards the end, her Warders supporting her to either side, but eventually a way lay open – a wide staircase, leading down into gloom.

After getting her breath back, Shrina stepped forward. Her Warders made as if to follow, but a raised, commanding hand stopped them. They protested.

"You should not go in there alone, Shrina…"

"We do not know what is down there, Shrina…"

"The Horn of Valere, with any luck! Stay-put, my handsome Gaidin – your Aes Sedai knows best!"

"But..."

"But..."

"But me no buts – you both know why you cannot come any further – it pains me to say it (for I love you dearly) but your hearts are not pure enough!" The Twins gaped. Shrina patiently explained her reasoning further.

"As well you know, the Horn may only be found by one who has the correct attitude! 'Let _whomsoever sounds me think not of Glory, but only of Salvation_.' I fear that you pretty fellows would only confound my quest with your covert lust for fame and notoriety, whereas _I_..." but at this point the Twins had ceased listening, exchanging disconsolate and wounded glances, shaking their heads slowly back and forth. Even compared with Shrina's typically unfair assessment of their behaviour and character, this was _outrageous!_ "...so as you can see, only one who has the correctly selfless motivation for discovering the Horn of Valere could possibly succeed in this situation."

Shrina nodded, firmly. Seeing from their regretful and penitent expressions that her Warders had got the message, and conveniently ignoring the far-differing sensations that came through the bond, Shrina turned and made her way carefully into the narrow, gloomy mouth of the archway, the Twins loitering above. They looked at each other and snorted, with some disgust. Aebel stalked off to tend to the horses whilst Blaek angrily began to collect what little firewood was not too dampened by the perpetual mist that hung over the bog. They should be going down there with Shrina, not attending to such mundane tasks – it was not fair! But then, it rarely was, with one's Aes Sedai, as far as they could tell – perhaps that turncoat Machera had the right idea? Running-off to roam about with a bunch of flea-ridden wolves might even be preferable to _this_ callous treatment!

Trying not to think of glory (at least not too much) and still holding the Source, Shrina channelled a sphere of pale light above her head as she made her cautious way down the uneven steps, descending into the gloom. The air smelled musty and there were a few too many spiderwebs getting caught in her hair for her liking – but a Hunter for the Horn had to be prepared to face any trial or challenge, even those with eight-legs... the denizens of this ancient ruin could not be any worse than Renn's accursed pet, at least!

As the staircase ended, a large, circular chamber opened up before her, beneath a high-vaulted ceiling choked with dead vines... and in the centre stood a man, with his back to her. Shrina cursed under her breath, preparing weaves of Air in case he should prove troublesome – what was _he_ doing down here? Another Hunter? But at her approach, the tall figure made no movement and she soon saw why – not a man, but a _statue_ of a man! Life-size, and cunningly, skilfully worked in time-blackened marble, wearing long, flowing robes of an antique design. The arms of the statue were slightly raised, and seemed to be holding something... Shrina circled cautiously, booted feet crunching on the remains of an ancient mosaic.

The statue wore a coronet atop curling locks of hair, shaped like a sinuous creature curled about the skull, the lion-maned head snarling above the tip of a serpentine tail at the centre of the smooth, marbled brow. The face suggested power and pride – a strong profile with deep-set eyes, a thin-lipped mouth set in a slightly sneering smile and, cradled in those carven hands... something definitely _not_ made of marble, but of metal.

Shrina's eyes widened, her mouth fell open... surely it could not be this easy? But there it was, hidden for an Age and now... found! Shining dimly in the pale light, beautifully-wrought, curling in a double spiral, a slender mouthpiece tapering out to a wide bell... Her fingers hesitantly traced the script inlaid around it, the words that had been imprinted in her mind since the age of three, when her grandfather had first told her the story...

_Tia mi aven Moridin isainde vadin._

There it was, outlined in the white light of _saidar_ – the fabled Horn of Valere!

* * *

The Twins watched expectantly as Shrina emerged from the archway, besmirched with ancient dust and cobwebs – and smiling, triumphantly. They eyed each other doubtfully... _surely not?_ Had the Horn _really_ been down there?

"Are you ready?" Shrina demanded of her Warders, adding, "brace yourselves!" and thrust her hand under her cloak, where she was clearly concealing something large and bulbous beneath her arm. Triumphantly, Shrina revealed the Horn of Valere, displaying it to them. The Twins stared for a long moment, their mouths open. But when they finally spoke, instead of rapturous congratulations for her success, they… they _quibbled!_

"But Shrina... should not the Horn-"

"-of Valere be... _golden?_"

There was not a single story, out of a great many, that did not specify that the Horn of Valere was fashioned of this particular precious metal, and no other.

Shrina blinked, and re-examined her miraculous find. It had been very dark down there… the pale, white glow of _saidar_ she had been using for illumination had made everything look rather washed-out. It had certainly _seemed_ to reflect a yellowish gleam, but... in the cold light of day, she took her first really good look at her discovery and stared, pop-eyed. The Horn – it… was… made… of … brass! _Brass!_ _Just like_ the one the shifty Peddler had tried to sell her in Jehannah, at least until Aebel scraped off a section of the gold paint and Blaek scared him away with dire threats! No… _no_, it was not even brass, it was forged of that _other_, _less_ shiny metal –

"It looks to be cast in bronze, Shrina?" speculated Aebel.

"It _is_ cast in bronze, Shrina," confirmed Blaek.

"But... but..." Shrina managed to splutter... "it's bloody got 'the grave is no bar to my call' bloody engraved on it! Bloody, burning, flaming ashes!" Though come to think of it, the one in Jehannah had too, though several of the words had been spelt wrong... Shrina held the bronze horn up to the dim sunlight and glared at it speechlessly awhile. The twin Gaidin shifted, uncomfortably. They did not need the bond to sense that their Aes Sedai was far from happy.

Shrina shook her head in wordless denial. The artefact was clearly ancient and well-wrought – if only Ellyth were here to tell her if it was a _ter'angreal_ or not! What if… what if the Horn of Valere _was_ made out of bronze? Yes, that _must_ be it, the legends were all… wrong! But the Twins made awkward, throat-clearing sounds.

"We do not think that is-"

"-the Horn of Valere, Shrina."

"Shut-up pretty-boys, or I'll spank you till next Sun Day!" Shrina snarled, then gave the dusty mouthpiece a quick wipe with the edge of her cloak and raised the bronzen Horn to her lips. There was only one sure way to tell, after all… so she blew it, as hard as she could!

"Wait, Shrina!" the Twins objected, but it was too late – the ungolden Horn had been sounded. A single, beautiful note echoed through the ancient ruins, a sound that was certainly not brassy... a sustained, shivering call, evocative and mystical. Immediately, a dense, white fog boiled from about their feet and up into the sky, eclipsing the mere mist of the boglands until they were surrounded on all sides by a thick dome of white blankness.

Shrina lowered the bronze horn and looked up, uncertainly. There seemed to be shapes above her, descending slowly. People. Drifting silently down through the fog as though they were leaves and not… people. Quite simply the _strangest_ collection of people Shrina had ever seen. They alighted soundlessly all around, their feet touching the ground and settling… feet clad in oddly-pointed velvet slippers, elaborately-worked boots and intricate, gilded leather sandals, as well as feet that were just plain bare. Perhaps one-hundred of them in all, many wearing brightly-hued gowns and robes that swirled about them, but some in odder garb that she had never seen the like of... a short tunic and tight leggings here, a cloak that seemed to be made out of multi-coloured feathers there... one wearing a dark fur pelt, the head of some strange beast falling over his brow, numerous swirling tattoos covering his pale body... and another with very dark skin who, apart from a long red scarf wound into a round headpiece, wore only a bit of threadbare rag about his waist! There was even one fellow in a bright orange robe and spiked yellow mantle, the upper half of his face obscured by a large golden mask in the shape of a fiery sun, curvilinear rays radiating out from it, his jaw and chin painted gold to match.

The strange collection of folk settled to the ground on all sides, standing, watching. Eyes of all shades and hues were fixed on Shrina, eyes that seemed to hold great wisdom, ancient knowledge. There seemed to be a sense of... _expectancy_ to them.

Not knowing what else to do, Aebel and Blaek drew their swords and stood with their backs to either side of Shrina as she stared in confusion, wondering if her impulsive action had been the right course to take – well, it was too late now! It usually was… She embraced the Source as a precaution, though the strangers did not seem dangerous, exactly… none of them were armed, certainly, which made the likelihood of their being the Heroes bound to the Horn of Valere somewhat distant.

So, the three Hunters stood, faced by a great throng, arrayed in a semi-circle against the backdrop of white fog. Though she could see no-one moving their lips, straining her ears Shrina thought that she could hear distant voices speaking quietly, amplified and given an echoing quality by the thick atmosphere, talking, though in no language she understood. Indeed, the voices seemed to speak in many different tongues, formal and clipped, fluid and melodic, all ancient and indiscernible. A soft babble of conversation and argument, declamation, dialogue and debate.

"Who are you people?" Shrina demanded, finally.

At which, the assemblage fell silent and a short, stout man stepped forward. Spreading his hands wide, palms open, bowing low. He straightened, observing Shrina and the Twins quietly, a small, gentle smile curving his lips. His skull was completely bereft of hair and he lacked eyebrows also, while his skin was the colour of butter, stretched taught over his plump frame. He wore a plain, saffron-coloured robe that left one fleshy shoulder bare, falling in folds down to his knees, as well as a simple, yet finely-worked pair of rope sandals, his chubby toes poking from the ends. A string of polished wooden beads were hung about his thick neck. His dark eyes were so narrow that they almost disappeared when he smiled, which he did with some constancy. In addition to wisdom and good-humour, he seemed to exude… _patience_. In fact, he appeared the most patient person who ever lived – and in company with Shrina, might well need to be!

"Who are we, Hornsounder?" the bald man responded, his voice oddly-accented with a sing-song quality to it, rising and falling with his words, "we are, in truth, humble servants of the Pattern."

He bowed again, as did the others arrayed behind him, each performing their obeisance in a different way, some of the women amongst them lifting their skirts slightly and curtsying.

"You're not a Hero!" Shrina declared, accusingly, not troubling to mask her disappointment, then gestured at the rest of the strange folk, standing against the white fog, "and _they_ certainly don't look like Heroes either!" The non-Heroes turned to each other, the low mutter of voices resuming, as they considered her words.

The bald fellow held up a hand and the others fell respectfully silent. He shook his head, slowly. "Heroes, Hornsounder?" he exclaimed, with a note of wry apology, "oh dear-me no, of a certainty we are not _Heroes_..." He laughed a little at the idea, a soft, mellow sound that seemed to invite others to share in the humour, though Shrina was certainly in no mood for mirth! Some of those behind him smiled, while others looked a little confused. The robed man leant forward, raising a hand to shade his mouth, and whispered loudly, "_that_ is the _other_ Horn!"

"The other... how many bloody Horns are there, then?" The Twins winced at Shrina's tone, but the bald man did not take offence, simply blinked slowly.

"Why, if you mean the Horns which summon those bound to them whilst the Great Wheel turns, bound throughout the Ages... then there are three, Hornsounder."

_Three? Ridiculous!_

"Why do you keep calling me that?" Shrina demanded.

"It is your title, Hornsounder... it would be ill, I think, not so to address you." The bald man smiled beatifically, and touched one of his large, pendulous earlobes.

"I... that is to say... what..?" Shrina shook her head. "Who _are_ you?" she enquired finally, for want of anything else to ask. The bald man's face became temporarily solemn.

"Myself? I am honoured that you ask, Hornsounder. I have had many names through the Ages, one for each life that I have lived, a great many names indeed, dear-me, yes! But I think, perhaps, that you might know me best as… _Ghoetam_."

Ghoetam's smile resumed. He had a very pleasant smile.

Shrina stared. "Ghoetam? Who sat beneath Avendesora for forty years to gain wisdom? And birds... the birds brought you food?"

_They must have brought him quite a _lot_ of food, by the looks of it..._

Ghoetam chuckled, as though he knew her thoughts… perhaps he did?

"Birds! Little birds, bringing nuts and berries to me, each and every day, whilst I sought enlightenment... I have always _liked_ that story!" He chuckled again, though Shrina noted that he neither confirmed nor denied the veracity of the tale.

One of the others in the throng stepped forward, a tall, gaunt fellow swathed in brown, hooded robes the colour and texture of bark, his eyes so dark-green as to be almost obsidian, craggy face obscured by a long, white beard. He grinned.

"Thou art lucky, good Ghoetam, that the birds of the air didst not bring thee _worms!_" he called out, in a rough, burring voice. A few of the others laughed softly at the idea. Ghoetam turned slightly, a finger raised in benevolent admonition.

"Ah, but worms would be forbidden to me, Derwuaad," he responded, "for are we not all companions on the Path of Light? People, birds, worms – it is marvellous to behold!" And he laughed again.

Shrina stared at Ghoetam in some confusion – _he thinks people are the same as worms? well, I suppose that I have met one or two who were good candidates for wormhood! but even so..._

Shrina sighed, releasing the Source, then noticed that the Twins had their blades out... she had been somewhat distracted. "Put up your swords, boys," she hissed, "everyone knows Ghoetam is a man of peace! You don't want to offend him! Or his… his friends." The Twins eyed each other as they sheathed their swords – _they_ were not the offensive ones!

Ghoetam smiled. "Peace? That I am!" He pressed his palms together flat before his chest, addressing the Twins. "A blessing upon those who defend the Hornsounder."

Aebel and Blaek glanced at each other as they sheathed their blades. "Thank-you, Ghoetam," they muttered, self-consciously.

Ghoetam and the bearded fellow, Derwuaad, were joined by another of the strange folk, as a tall, majestic-looking woman draped in a shimmering grey gown swayed gracefully forward. Her jet-black hair was coiled in intricate braids, piled atop her head, adding to her height. Her eyes shone with a strange, silvery light. She raised an elegant hand as she spoke, her voice somewhat nasal.

"I believe that the Hornsounder specified Heroes," she stated, "so perhaps deeds rather than words are her requirement?"

"She is due a sore disappointment, in that wise," muttered Derwuaad.

"But High-Counsel," responded Ghoetam, turning to the tall, silver-eyed woman, "surely if-"

"Excuse me!" Shrina interjected, and Ghoetam turned back to her. She raised the bronze Horn, waving it for emphasis. "Sorry to interrupt, but… if this is _not_ the Horn of Valere…" – she scowled, she had not wished to entertain the possibility, even now – "then which Horn is it?"

Ghoetam gestured at the bronze instrument with great respect. "It is the Horn of T'oph," he intoned. He spoke the first syllable of this name very strangely.

"The Horn of _what?_"

"T'oph." Ghoetam pronounced the word more distinctly this time, but it seemed… unpronounceable!

"Th… th'poth?"

"No, Hornsounder; _T'oph_."

"Th… thp… I can't possibly _say_ that word! If indeed, it _is_ a word!"

"Oh, it is, Hornsounder. Decidedly. More of a name than a word, the name of a place… a place that has not existed in a very long time, in an Age or more…"

"I don't care about that! I can pronounce 'Valere.' I know how to say _that!_"

"Technically, Hornsounder, it is spoken as _Va'le're_…" Ghoetam shrugged apologetically.

"Bah!" The Twins flinched, but Ghoetam did not seem to mind. His placid features assumed a note of query.

"Hornsounder… would I be right in thinking that the sounding of the Horn of Valere was your true intent?" A small smile creased Ghoetam's lips, and he took care to pronounce it the way Shrina did this time.

"Yes!" Shrina confirmed, "of course it was!" She waved at the rest of the throng, from whence again arose a low mutter of speech as they considered this. "So who are all of you people, then? _Apart_ from being humble servants of the Pattern, I mean."

Ghoetam looked over his bare shoulder, then turned back, smiling.

"We are all of us Sages, bound to the Horn of T'oph..."

"_Sages?_" spluttered Shrina. Well, that was what her stupid clue had stated, after all. Curse Roth – this was all his fault!

Ghoetam sighed. "Forgive me, Hornsounder, but it might take some time to properly introduce all of us. I am something of a spokesman for my fellows... they may speak, as needed." Shrina shook her head. It was all rather a lot to take in…

"You are all Sages?" Ghoetam nodded. "What do you _do_, then?"

"We advise, Hornsounder. There are those who have been good enough to call us wise... we provide suggestion, as opposed to action. _That_ is our function."

"Do you mean that, your role is to _talk_, rather than do something useful as the Heroes of the Horn of Valere might, like… like attacking Shayol Ghul, for example!" The Twins groaned softly… Ghoetam did not seem to be offended, though. He shook his head, sadly.

"I fear that I would not be certain how to go about... attacking _that_ place, or indeed anywhere else, for that matter. But perhaps we may not prove entirely useless. How may we advise you, Hornsounder?"

"I know _exactly_ how you can bloody advise me!" Shrina took a deep breath. "Tell me where the Horn of Valere is! Advise me as to its location right now!"

Some of the Sages frowned at this, a few shook their heads in wordless disapproval, but Ghoetam merely smiled his patient smile and pointed a plump finger in a westerly direction. Shrina listened to his words intently.

So, the fall of dusk saw Shrina galloping A'vron from the outskirts of the Paerish Swar, one of her saddlebags bulging oddly and bouncing with the motion of her running gelding, the Twins digging their heels into Mosk and Merk's heaving flanks, hastening in her incautious wake.

Shrina's face wore a fixed expression of grim determination… she had absolutely no idea who this 'High-Lord Turak' was, or what he thought he was doing living in the old Governor's residence in the town of her birth, but that would not stop her – if he got in-between Shrinalla Tolamani and her rightful Horn, then he would find himself kissing the wrong end of a lightning bolt! Shadowspawn or not… though these 'Shornshans' certainly sounded like creatures of the Shadow, by all accounts… perhaps they were the 'Ravens' mentioned in the Prophecy? Well, if not, she could always leave this foreign Lord the Horn of Th- Thp- the _other_ Horn, in recompense! But whatever the outcome, one thing was for sure… she was going home to Falme, to visit grandpa and (more importantly) to fulfil the Miereallen Prophecy. She was a gambler, was she not? She would stake her life on it, then!

* * *

"There is a Whitecloak coming, Shrina."

Aebel's voice held wariness, but not that much, since there only seemed to be the one Whitecloak. Nonetheless, his blade slid from its scabbard at the same time as Blaek's and they all reined-in, watching cautiously. In the week since they had left the Paerish Swar, they had seen no sign of the Children of the Light, but presumed evidence in a small, isolated village, of the grim handiwork of their Questioners.

The Whitecloak rode his horse rather oddly, slumped forward against its neck, the barren flat terrain of Almoth Plain a backdrop to his steady approach. His mount, a tall, roan gelding, came to an abrupt stop before them and its rider promptly slumped to one side and fell to the ground in a boneless heap, laying in an untidy sprawl atop his once-white cloak, which looked extremely grimy. The front of his filthy tabard was stained with dark blood, apparently his own. He was young, with a single golden knot of rank beneath the sunburst on the breast of his cloak.

Shrina sighed and dismounted, her Warders following-suit. There was an abandoned barn nearby, so the Twins dragged the wounded Whitecloak over to it – not being particularly careful about it either – and dumped him inside, while Shrina held the horses. The Twins looked enquiringly at her as they came back. Should they cut the Whitecloak's horse loose or take it with them as a pack-animal? He would not need it for much longer, the state he was in… the beast snorted and tossed its head as Blaek reached for its bridle, then trotted over to the barn of its own accord. A fine-looking blade hung sheathed from a saddle-strap.

"I suppose that I should take a look at his injuries…" Shrina did not sound particularly enthusiastic. The Twins glanced at each other, shaking their heads slightly. In addition to having a great deal of respect for her Warder, they both liked Ellythia Sedai very much, they thought that she was every bit as courageous as their own Aes Sedai – and less fool-hardy with it, though they kept this to themselves, for Shrina had told them emphatically, fairly early on in their relationship, that she only liked to be told 'nice' things about herself! But the Lady Desiama had fine manners and charm – which, though they loved her very much and would die for her without hesitation, they occasionally felt were a little lacking in Shrina.

As far as the twin Warders were concerned, when it came to their Aes Sedai's best friend, it was not _her_ fault the kind of family she had been born into… but that did not mean that they had a great liking for anyone _else_ who came from an old House of Amadicia, especially when they wore a white cloak emblazoned with the golden sunburst. As the dying young man they had just dragged into the barn clearly was – he had groaned something about 'Heroes and monsters…' that they had not really understood, and his refined, clipped accents had been pure Amador. He had sounded an awful lot like Ellythia Sedai, in fact…

Shrina shrugged. "He might at least be able to tell us something of Falme, since he was riding from that direction," she pointed-out.

Leaving the Twins to follow-on with the horses, Shrina strode into the dilapidated barn. The Whitecloak lay on a pile of straw, his horse nuzzling at his shoulder. His eyes were now open, staring up at the sagging roof, his blood-flecked lips moving... Shrina strained her ears, examining the fellow as she did so. He was younger than she had thought, she realised, with blonde hair and blue eyes... perhaps from Andor?

"Come to... to fight for the Light..." the Whitecloak muttered deliriously, then groaned softly. No, definitely not an Andoran accent...

Shrina knelt beside him, pushing his horse's nose away, careful not to get her green woollen gown too close to his blood-stained garments. Should she Heal him? He probably would not thank her for doing so, would be as likely to stick his dagger in her rather than give gratitude... With this in mind, Shrina whisked the weapon in question from the young Whitecloak's belt and passed it to Blaek, who had appeared to hover protectively behind her, a hand on his hilt. Aebel led the horses into the barn. It would be best not to stay on the road, there might be more Whitecloaks in the vicinity, or former soldiers turned brigand, as Tarabon and Arad Doman appeared to be fighting yet another of their pointless wars over Almoth... or battling against the invaders, it was hard to say. They had encountered scattered groups of refugees babbling wild stories, often over their shoulders whilst fleeing in the opposite direction.

The young Child-officer's eyes stared, unseeing. "I saw him..." he moaned, "in the sky over Falme... he duels with the Dark One... may the Light preserve us all..."

"Who did you see?" asked Shrina. Clearly, the fellow was close to death, and raving. But if he had come from Falme, he might have news of her home-town?

"The one foretold! He is reborn... he… Heron… Heron wading in the Rushes… father told me never to… never use _that_, except in practice…" The young Whitecloak's eyes fluttered shut as he lapsed into unconsciousness, his wounded chest rising and falling raggedly. He coughed weakly, blood flecking his lips. Shrina stared a moment, then growling angry imprecations under her breath, embraced the Source, seized the fellow's head between her hands and cast a Healing weave. The young man's body arched, before subsiding back into the straw. His eyes slowly reopened, looking clearer and more aware than they had. He examined his saviour closely, then the Twins who stood behind her.

Shrina wiped at her brow, feeling an ache rising behind her eyes. It had taken all of her strength to mend the injuries the Whitecloak had taken… she hoped it was worth it. Aebel and Blaek were scowling darkly. They did not like Whitecloaks – in fact, their various dislikes comprised a rather long list, but the Children of Light were certainly close to the top of it, just below Trollocs and Tairens.

Shrina noted the young Whitecloak's eyes on her. "_What_ was that you said?" she demanded, "about Falme?" Enemy or not, he might have valuable information about what lay ahead of them…

The Whitecloak did not answer, simply took an experimental breath, moving his arms a little. "You Healed me?" he enquired, wonderingly. Shrina nodded, curtly. Oddly, he seemed neither angry nor suspicious, more… curious.

"Yes, I Healed you... with the _One Power_," Shrina snapped, pointedly.

"So... _that_ is what Healing is like, yes?" the Whitecloak commented. "A strange sensation… I always imagined it would be more… painful. Not pleasant, certainly, but not entirely unpleasant either… rather like taking a cold plunge into a..." he shook his head, letting his head fall back.

The Twins were not pleased. If the fellow wished for a _painful_ experience, they would be happy to oblige…

"Why did you Heal him, Shrina?"

"Wolves are bad enough, Shrina, but _Whitecloaks_…"

Shrina waved for her Warders to be silent, still eyeing the Whitecloak closely.

"Falme?" she prompted.

"You are… Aes Sedai..." The Whitecloak glanced at the Twins. "Those two... who look so alike... did they call you 'Shrina?' "

"Shrinalla happens to be my _name_, though you may feel free to append 'Sedai' to it, young man. Now answer the burning question, Whitecloak! What happened in Falme?"

"Falme? Yes, Falme... we charged the invaders... I heard a strange sound... their captive witches threw fire into our ranks, blasted the stones beneath our feet with the Power... the Legion... destroyed! I lay there with Muadh's dead horse atop me, bits of Muadh too, I believe… poor fellow, though I never much cared for him… lay waiting for the end... and then... I saw them! They threw the invaders back into the Ocean, whilst in the sky above... The Dragon! He fought with the Dark One!"

The Whitecloak's eyes were wide, held a fanatical light.

Shrina scowled. "You are clearly still delirious. No-doubt as a result of your wounds, which have just been Healed by a Tar Valon witch, I might add!"

The Whitecloak smiled, infuriatingly. "Oh, that does not concern me, overmuch... Shrinalla Sedai…" He spoke her name slowly, as though testing the way it sounded on his lips. "I thank you for giving my life back to me, by the way..." He eyed the Twins levelly. "If your Warders wish to try and take it, perhaps one of them would be so good as to pass me my sword first… I should prefer to die with it in my hand, the men of my House rarely relinquish it whilst still alive, yes?"

"You are unusual for a Whitecloak, aren't you?" Shrina muttered.

"Mmm? Well, I suppose I am a little unusual… for a… White… Cloak." Shrina frowned. That interrogative sound, with the head tilted forward slightly, eyebrows raised – it seemed an oddly _familiar_ mannerism. Come to think of it, there was something _very_ familiar about this Whitecloak, not the way he looked – but… something. The way he spoke..? How could that be? "After all," the young fellow added, "there are not many in the Legions who have a sister who is, as you put it, a Tar Valon witch!" The Whitecloak blinked as he was pointed at, accusingly.

"_Now_ I know who you must be! You are Ellyth's brother – Thadeus!"

The young Whitecloak inclined his head gravely, managing to make the motion elegant despite being sprawled on his back in filthy straw.

"Guilty! Though it is actually _Thaeus_… I _did_ have an ancestor named Thadeus, however, a wicked man, by all accounts… he came to a bad end." Thaeus sat upright, gingerly. "I would not have cared to be Healed by most Aes Sedai, you understand… but my sister has often spoken of you in her letters, over the years," he explained, "I am sure that if you were a Darkfriend, she would have mentioned it by now..."

"I thought that the Children regarded _all_ Aes Sedai as Darkfriends?"

"No, Shrinalla Sedai, it is just the stupid ones who do! Let us say… 'most?' "

While Shrina stared, the young fellow turned his head slightly – he was a confident one, and no mistake! – and nodded to her Warders.

"And you two must be Aebel and… Blaek..? I am sorry that I do not know which is which! Ellyth has spoken of you also, yes?" The fair-haired fellow, who did not physically resemble Ellyth in the slightest, turned his dark blue eyes back to her and held out his gauntleted hand politely to the Aes Sedai who had just saved his life.

"Thaeus, of House Desiama." Shrina had taken his hand before she could think of an adequate reason not to and the Twins glowered as he pressed it briefly to his lips, which were pleasingly soft (if sticky with blood) she could not help but notice. "I am pleased to meet you, Shrinalla Sedai, primarily perhaps, because had I not, I would be dead, yes? But even so, it is always nice to be able to put a face to a name. And I would like to thank you for having been so good a friend to my sister these last years, I feared that she would have none in the Tower."

Shrina retrieved her hand and knelt back on her booted heels.

"Yes, well… I was an only-child, and an orphan, to-boot! Ellyth is the sister I never had, growing-up." Shrina squinted at Thaeus. "You _sound_ a lot like her, but there isn't much in the way of family resemblance, I must say!"

"I favour our mother… she hailed from Andor." Thaeus glanced at the horses, then the Twins again, who were looking uncertain, though they had not sheathed their blades. "Though I did not really need to hear your name, since there cannot be many Aes Sedai of the White Tower with a sword hung over their pommel and matching Warders!"

The Twins growled… they were not shoes! They did not _match_, they were individuals, who just happened to look like each other… and liked the things each other did, Shrina for example… most of the time. Shrina stared for a moment… then threw back her head and laughed! Her ringing, melodic laughter held a note of genuine amusement. The Twins scowled. Whose side was she on?

"Matching Warders? I like that! But do not poke fun at my sword for I know how to use it… I'll go and get it and poke you back!" Shrina frowned at the Twins. "Stop scowling at him, my handsome lads! Are you planning on stabbing Ellyth's younger brother? She wouldn't like that, since he was always her favourite – she would set your feet afire and send you dancing all the way back to Mayene!" The Whitecloak seemed to find this an amusing image also, and chuckled softly. The Twins made grumbling noises under their breaths, but put-up their blades.

"My sister is not with you, then?" Thaeus enquired.

"No…" Shrina sighed. It seemed that everyone she met expected them to be journeying together, it simply reinforced her feelings of guilt that they were not! She wished she could have convinced Ellyth to come Hunting with her, though she never would have – but her friend would have better known how to deal with those infuriating Sages! "Ellyth has her Cause, which takes her elsewhere…"

Thaeus blinked, a shadow of concern passing over his features for a moment, then shook his head with resignation.

"That she does… and you, I would presume, your Hunt." Thaeus rose unsteadily, Shrina helping him. He swayed a little, rubbing at his brow.

"You presume correctly… Thaeus." Well, she couldn't go on calling him 'Whitecloak' after all. He had rather beautiful eyes, she considered… Ellyth had always said her brother was a handsome fellow, but to see him in the flesh, despite his being somewhat soiled and malodorous from his recent ordeals… Shrina scowled. This was hardly the time or place for such admiration!

Thaeus glanced uncertainly at her, while the Twins hovered by the horses, frowning. "With regard to that, Shrinalla Sedai… I regret to inform you…" He paused, looking uncertain of himself for the first time.

Shrina frowned. "What?" But her heart sunk. In a way, she already knew.

"I owe you my life, and to be the bearer of ill-tidings is poor recompense, but… that which you seek… it is _found_. The Horn of Valere has been sounded!"

_"The Legion will advance at a trot."_

_Responding to the Lord-Captain's order, Lord-Lieutenant Thaeus of House Desiama drew his sword and tapped his heels into the flanks of Rahien, his tall roan gelding. His company fell-in to either side, beginning their fatal advance. The echoes of that strange note he had heard still seemed to hang in the air, as did the thick streamers of white mist that had arisen from nowhere. Though he was well aware that he was riding to his death, Thaeus felt no fear, as such… for some days now, he had been in a place that put him beyond that. In a way, falling in battle would almost come as a relief, he considered, a reprieve from the other manner of doom that surely awaited him. He would not particularly welcome it, however. He had always loved life, after all._

_When the ground ahead and then around them began to erupt, blooms of destruction emptying saddles, tearing holes in the ranks of the Legion, Thaeus responded by digging in his spurs. Best to get it over with…_

_"The Legion will charge!" Lord-Captain Bornhald's final order was all-but drowned-out by the screams of the dying, the thunderous explosions that spelled their destruction. Thaeus had only been with the Legion since Amador, leader of the reinforcements… he had seen more of war in the last five weeks than in the five years preceding it. He had seen things which had sickened him. And, as one of the few survivors of a brief, vicious skirmish with these invaders, he knew exactly what to expect from this final, desperate charge. Death._

_Up ahead through the strange white fog, Thaeus briefly glimpsed the invaders waiting beneath a banner that depicted a golden hawk clutching bolts of lightning in its claws, their brightly-coloured, overlapping plates of armour catching the light… and more of those women, connected each to each by the dull, silvery leashes. Thaeus did not think that they were Aes Sedai, as others of the Legion had darkly muttered, but had kept this to himself. Clearly, they were something worse. When the ground exploded beneath Rahien's hooves and he was thrown, a savage pain in his chest, he lay awhile, his legs pinned by something, staring up at the thick white fog that occluded the sun. He imagined he could see riders up there, descending. He was seeing visions! So this was death… interesting. Not what he had expected… not at all. The pain in his chest was a distant thing, his mind seeming to drift from his body._

_Thaeus sighed, feeling a distant regret that he would never see his family again. But at least he had done his best, he always had, even when duty had put him in company with those he detested. Child Byar, for example… he wished _that_ fellow were here to die alongside him! For he must be dead, or why else would he be seeing dead Heroes?_

_Artur Hawkwing, his sword Justice shining in his hand, too bright to look upon. Gaidal Cane, a sword in each hand… silver-bowed Birgitte… golden-tongued Paedrig. And there – mounted on a snow-white charger, his burnished armour gleaming mirror-bright, his tall helm topped with a crest depicting a dove in flight – it could only be Mikel of the Pure Heart, who out of all the Heroes bound to the Horn, had always been his favourite! Mikel glanced down at him incuriously as he cantered past, seeming to nod in acknowledgement before lowering his visor, setting his long lance and charging the invaders. Thaeus coughed blood, and grinned… if this was death, then it wasn't so bad, better than a Gleeman's tale, even!_

_More hooves galloping by… a curly-haired, wide-shouldered youth, with yellow eyes – the Darkfriend the others had spoken of, who talked to wolves? Surely not? The young man held a banner, tied to a sapling… it depicted a long, sinuous creature with a lion's mane, five golden claws on each foot. Thaeus blinked. He knew whose banner that was… and beside him, a tall, skinny youth, guiding his horse with his knees, something golden and curled in his hands… he blew it and again, that strange, shivering note sounded across the battlefield._

_Thaeus fell back, not noticing as Rahien returned to his side, nuzzling at his shoulder… for up above, emblazoned in the sky… he began to laugh, feeling slightly unhinged, as he watched the tall young man with the red hair face the Dark One… duelling back and forth, first one ascendant, then the other, and finally… Heron Wading in the Rushes… Sheathing the Sword! Lord Guye had always warned him to never use that sword-form in a duel… perhaps the Dragon's father had neglected to do so? Thaeus watched the outcome of the battle in the sky, then, despite the pain, pushed himself slowly to his feet, leaning heavily on his sword, then scrambled up and onto his horse. The Legion might be dead, but he was still alive, for a short time at least. If he was going to die, then he would do so somewhere else, he had decided._

Shrina scowled darkly at the news. And promptly went to her saddlebags. The Twins objected;

"No, Shrina, please do not do it again!"

"At least think about your questions first!"

Shrina scowled. "I've only got _one_ question for those Sages this time," she snapped, "and I do not need to _think_ about what it is!"

Thaeus of House Desiama watched in bemusement as his sister's peculiar-yet-pretty friend pulled a large bronze hunting horn out of a saddle-bag and proceeded, despite her Warder's protests, to blow it. A quivering, bronzen note sounded all around… feeling light-headed, Thaeus sat down hard on a hay bale, staring as a thick, white fog arose on all sides. Just as it had before, at Falme.

"There is _another_ Horn?" Thaeus gasped, with some shock, but the others ignored him. _How many were there?_

* * *

"Back so soon, Hornsounder?" Ghoetam's features were as placid as ever, but even without eyebrows, he managed to look… quizzical.

"Yes! Is that a problem?" Shrina was in no mood to deal with obstreperous Sages! She waved the Horn of T'oph at them, to remind them who was in charge, and gave them all a glare, for good measure. She then fixed an accusing gaze on Ghoetam. "I have a bone to pick with you, Ghoetam! You said that the Horn was in the possession of this Lord Tulak, or whatever he was called, and that he had _no intention_ of sounding it!"

Ghoetam spread his hands in a regretful gesture. "It was… and truly, he did not, Hornsounder," he responded, in tones of profound regret. "Unfortunately, following his violent demise, the Horn of Valere was taken up by one Matrim Cauthon of the Two Rivers, who sounded it several days ago…" Ghoetam shook his head, sadly.

"_Matrim Cauthon?_ Who in the Black Pit is _he?_"

"_Ta'veren_," muttered Derwuaad, with a shrug.

"An interesting young man, by all accounts," observed the tall, majestic woman, who Ghoetam had referred to as 'High-Counsel.' "One who might dice with the Dark One – and win!"

Shrina scowled. _The Gambler!_ "Tell me what happened," she sighed, resignedly.

Ghoetam blinked. "_Tell_ you, Hornsounder?" He smiled. "I am not one of those bound to the _Silver_ Horn! I have no aptitude for the telling of tales, the singing of songs!" Shrina took a deep breath, but Ghoetam forestalled her, raising his hands in placation. "I can do better than merely telling – I can _show_ you!" He gestured at the wall of white fog that surrounded them and its surface shimmered, mounted figures out of Legend appearing, displayed upon it.

The Heroes of the Horn; the Hawkwing himself… Rogosh Eagle-eye… Calian the Chooser and her brother, Shivan the Hunter… Amaresu, with her Sword of the Sun… a hundred others, Heroes of Legend, all answering the call of… Shrina stared at the tall, skinny fellow. And what he held. It shone in his hands, golden and beautiful… and by rights, it should have been _hers!_

Thaeus gasped. "That is what _I_ saw!"

The Heroes of the Horn charged the invaders, glorious and resplendent.

Ghoetam sighed, gustily. "Impressive, are they not? Oh, to be a Hero of Legend, and not a mere Sage! Few are the stories told of _our_ exploits!" And he chuckled, shaking his head wryly, Derwuaad and some of the other Sages smiling.

The elegant, silvery-eyed woman in the grey robe took issue with this. "Speak for yourself, Ghoetam!" the High-Counsel drawled, though in good-humoured tones.

"Forgive me, Anla!" responded Ghoetam, "the Thousand Tales – I was forgetting!" Thaeus and the Twins stared at her in shock, and she smiled at them.

"I see that _they_ have heard of me!" remarked Anla the Wise Counsellor.

Shrina did not notice. She scowled up at Matrim Cauthon. The grinning fellow looked rather gaunt and pale – doubtless the result of a dissolute lifestyle, too many late nights spent carousing… and gambling! He was clearly one of those young men who considered himself the Creator's gift to women – a winning smile, a silver tongue, a confident step on the dance floor… and she took an instant dislike to him! This might not have been the case under other circumstances, but the curling, golden Horn in his hands made her more than a little prejudicial.

When no more demands for information were forthcoming from the Hornsounder, the images faded, as did the white fog itself, the Sages dissipating with it, and the four of them were left alone in the barn once more.

"Can we go back to Tar Valon now, Shrina?" the Twins enquired, though without much hope.

Shrina shook her head curtly. "We ride for Falme," she told them, coldly. And without further ado, led A'vron out of the barn, mounting gracefully and digging in her heels, leaving her Warders little option but to mount and trot after her.

They paused a moment before doing so, addressing Thaeus.

"Well, Whitecloak?" enquired Aebel. Blaek elbowed him, and frowned. Aebel frowned back. "Lord Thaeus," he qualified, grudgingly.

Thaeus was stroking the nose of Rahien, he glanced up at them. "You can compromise on 'Lord Whitecloak' if you like," he said, with a grin. The Twins did not grin back. Thaeus sighed. "Well what?" he enquired, raising an eyebrow – _just_ like his sister always did!

"Are you coming with us?" Blaek asked, expanding on his brother's query.

"Back to Falme," Aebel added, unnecessarily.

From up ahead came the unmistakeable sound of a bolt of lightning sizzling through the air, though the sky was cloudless. The Twins winced.

Thaeus considered a moment. "It is as good a place to take ship from as any," he said, "there may even be a few craft left in the harbour…" He grinned again. "If Birgitte of the Silver-bow has not destroyed them all!"

The Twins eyed him, uncertainly. Was he making a joke? More lightning from up ahead, the rending sound of a tree branch snapping and falling with a crash. The twin Warders flinched, clearly itching to hurry after their Aes Sedai.

Thaeus shook his head, wondering about the lightning, then shrugged. "Besides, I owe your Mistress my life… father always taught me to repay like with like, so perhaps an extra sword at her back would be only proper, the Plain and Toman Head being unusually dangerous places at the moment." Thaeus waved them on. "I will catch up to you," he called, "there is something I must attend to first."

The Twins nodded. They could not help but respect the fellow a little, despite his cloak – there did not seem to be much he could not take in his stride.

"You are much like your sister," Aebel stated, Blaek nodding. Thaeus blinked.

"We mean that as a compliment," Blaek explained.

Thaeus watched as the Twins spurred away, racing after Shrina. Then, he removed his once-white cloak, and held it up, looking at it for a long moment. No longer pure and unblemished. Stained. Much as the once-honourable motives of the Children of the Light had been besmirched, by the actions of the hated Questioners, the over-zealous behaviour of men such as Byar, the political manoeuvrings of the Lord-Captain Commander. He let the cloak fall, spread in the straw at his feet, staring down at it.

"He breaks all bonds, he unbinds all ties," Thaeus whispered, softly. He gazed upon the cloak for a long moment… wondering. Would it happen again? He had always been lucky, fortunate where other men were not… but in recent weeks, strange things had happened, that could no longer be attributed to mere luck. The invader who had drawn a bow on him in the skirmish, an easy shot, too close to miss, too far for Thaeus to cut him down – yet the man's bowstring had snapped. He still recalled the look on the archer's face as he closed the distance, striking with his blade - not fear. Surprise. And a week later, the sudden fever that had struck him down, the camp's hedge-doctor baffled by his quick recovery from near death... and at Falme, where he had been more concerned for Rahien's safety than his own – the roan gelding had come through the destruction without a scratch.

Thaeus took a long, shuddering breath, his mind seeming to lift from his body, floating in a calm and tranquil void… and slowly, wisps of smoke arose from the soiled white cloak, followed by licks of orange fire. Abruptly, the garment burst aflame. Thaeus sighed. He had not been sure… but there it was. The golden sunburst charred and blackened in the sudden heat. In a few instants, dirty white cloth and gold embroidery were reduced to grey ash.

Thaeus smiled grimly. It had almost come as a relief, to know that what he had seen at Falme had been _real_ – he had feared that the madness had come upon him already. It would, soon enough, he supposed. His mother had studied at Tar Valon as a girl, before returning to her family estates in Andor, deemed too weak in the Power to attain the Shawl, though she had always worn her Great Serpent Ring with pride, at least until she met Lord Guye. She had died giving birth to him, but her legacy lived on. First his sister… now him. Thaeus mounted Rahien, setting out after the others. For a dead man, it seemed as good a course of action to take as any. In the cold stillness of the barn, three bleak words seemed to hang in the air in his wake.

"The family curse."

* * *

_* here ends Book I of He Sleeps Under the Hill *_

_GB_


	8. 0: interlogue: At the Black College

**Gleeman Bob writes: **_a Merry Christmas if you celebrate it and a Cool Yule if you don't! the following is a short piece (yes, not everything the foolish Gleeman scribbles has to be eye-bleedingly long!) which takes place directly after the events in the Prologue and Chapter 2: Beneath the Collam Doon. so reading them first (if you haven't already) might help! in addition to the Prologue there will also be an Epilogue - so I suppose that makes this an Interlogue... (is that a word?) _

_just to let all subscribers, readers and (especially!) reviewers know that I will be posting _Chapter 7: Under the Hill_ on New Year's Eve, in one week's time. though there are some who refer to it as the Feast of Lights, I do believe. but it is not Winternight or even Bel Tine, which take place in the Spring, apparently, so that is yet another Wheel of Time detail I have managed to get wrong! stoopid Bob!_

_I will be posting Book II of He Sleeps Under the Hill as a new story since Book I has got ridiculously long enough already. I promise faithfully that you will at last get to see the Lightborn as Book II opens with him finally getting out of the bloody Stasis Box and moving around and even talking to people! but there are hints as to his character and appearance within the Interlogue below, for in addition to being a foolish Gleeman, I am also a shameless hinter..._

_thanks for reading, as ever, and I hope that those of you who receive nice presents tomorrow enjoy playing with them! I know that I will!_

_Walk in the Light!_

_GB_

* * *

_...on a serious note, I should like to add that I was very sorry to hear of the tragic events of November 8th. accordingly, I wish to dedicate this piece to the memory of a fellow Gleeman by the name of Matthew, whose Thread was cut from the Pattern much too soon._

_may the Hand of the Creator shelter you, MRDraeon._

* * *

**Interlogue * At the Black College**

Jarn kept a firm grip on the rope-thing that controlled his horse, watching as Ledrin picked up the Lightborn – who was much _smaller_ than he had expected him to be – and hugged him close to his barrel chest.

"It is so good to see you again, young Master!" Ledrin was saying, his voice choked, tears of joy running down his lined face. "Why, I did not think that you would _ever_ come back!"

The Lightborn's voice sounded a little muffled.

"Yes, it is very nice to see you too, Ledrin, you may put me down now…"

Ledrin put the Lightborn down. Eventually.

"You look different, young Master," Ledrin commented. "Your hair - it is so much shorter now!"

"Yes, well, it got in the way… but I am _not_ attempting to look like one of the Warmen, I so promise you!" Despite this denial, the Lightborn wore the uniform of a Warman Scout, Jarn noted, with one of their distinctive fancloth double-capes swathed over it… but he was no mere soldier, by all accounts. He was much more dangerous than that. Though ostensibly unarmed...

Ledrin lowered his voice. "I heard what you did, young Master…"

"Yes? It was not something bad, was it? Please do not tell Father!"

Ledrin smiled. "I heard what you _did_," he repeated, adding the title "_Nightwatcher_," with significance. And then bowed.

Jarn and the rest of the _Da'shain_ bowed also. Up on the seat of the cart, Coarn and Galal stood, the tall twins mirroring each other's graceful bow, as they mirrored each other's features.

The Lightborn was looking a little uncomfortable, Jarn thought.

"It was just… what I do… please do not make a fuss, I am not the Tamyrlin so you may all _cease_ bowing now, good Dedicated."

The _Da'shain_ straightened, though many of them were smiling. Which was rare. No-one had much to smile about these days, the _Da'shain Aiel_ least of all. But they smiled at the Lightborn. Jarn did not. He had forgotten how to.

"You look well, Ledrin," the Lightborn lied. "How has Father been?"

"Well enough, young Master, well enough…"

"That bad, eh? Does he still drink too much?"

"No, young Master."

"Still brings his fancy-women to the College, I would suppose?"

"Oh no, young Master, not for a long time… though perhaps less a matter of choice than the brandy-drinking, for there is no House of Sighs in these parts anymore."

"And how would _you _know about the unavailability of local Courtesans, Ledrin? You have been out looking for girls too, I would expect!"

Ledrin smiled gently, and shook his head. The Lightborn did not know it, but he had not been with a woman in many years, not since the Myrddraal took his wife.

"I hear that Father has been seeking for a Stasis Box?" the Lightborn mentioned, casually. Jarn's ears pricked up.

"Oh yes, young Master, and he found three, but discarded the first two! _Now_ he has a Jorlen Corbesan design."

"Oh. That is good… I hear that they are the best ones…" The Lightborn did not seem very enthusiastic, Jarn thought.

The Lightborn went over to talk to the Apprentices for a while. Jarn strained his ears but could make out little, except for the name '_Haindar_' repeated twice and something that sounded like; '_watch-out for Kiam Sedai!_' though he was not sure what that meant. Then, the Lightborn came back.

"I must go down and see Father now, I would suppose... but first, let me aid you in lifting that nasty Doorway up onto the wooden thing with the wheels… it looks heavy!"

After helping four of the strongest _Da'shain_ load the twisted redstone _ter'angreal_ onto the cart, though it was more a matter of _them_ helping _him_, the Lightborn exchanged a few more words with Ledrin, mostly to do with the inadvisability of going to the Realms of the Aelfinn and the Eelfinn and expecting to come back again…

Jarn watched as they said their goodbyes. Whilst Ledrin wept openly, the Lightborn merely made a snuffling sound, scrubbing briskly at his large, strange eyes with gloved fingers. He was heard to mutter something about 'dust.'

Then, the Lightborn went into the Black College. He did not come out again.

After a time, the Traitor emerged, a wound on his cheek bleeding – perhaps the Lightborn did it? – and said his own farewells with Ledrin. The _Da'shain_ bowed one final time to the Master, then departed, the heavily-laden cart following-on after the inexpertly-ridden horses. The Companion Haindar was coming from the north, the Scouts had warned, so they went east, travelling slowly over broken roads.

Later on that day, they encountered a group of Mesaana's Children, but the horses were not stolen nor their riders slaughtered, since the brigands were all dead. It looked like the Lightborn's work. After pausing to bury the torn, broken corpses and say a blessing, the _Da'shain_ continued on their way through the ruined lands.

And that night, Jarn killed them all. Most of the _Da'shain_ he killed swiftly, with the dark blade that his new Master had given to him, a swift, lethal thrust while they yet slept. Those who awoke before they could be murdered did not try to stop Jarn, just looked at him with quiet, contemptuous reproach, or in some cases, pity, as he stabbed them. They did not need to see the ravens decorating the blade that killed them to know what he was – the truth of that which he had become was in his eyes.

Jarn saved Ledrin till last, and took his time about it. He had always hated his father for not better protecting his mother. This hatred had, as is often the case, led him inexorably to the Shadow. Though Ledrin did not scream once, just lay there mutely, gazing up at his son with unbearable sadness, right until the end. Jarn could not have said why, but this bothered him much more than he thought it would have.

The next morning, Jarn left his fallen Leafbrothers where they lay, the _ter'angreal_ also – since he had been given no orders regarding them – and turned north, riding to _Shayol Ghul_ to tell Ishamael what he knew of the Lightborn.

The _Dragonspawn_.


End file.
